You Either Die A Hero
by MidnightMadwoman
Summary: A grim alternate Season 10: Demon!Dean has his brother professionally darkened, and finds out the hard way that Soulless!Sam isn't that much fun to hang out with. Meanwhile, Crowley makes friends with the doctor that extracts human souls, and Cole and his son hunt Dean with furious vengeance. Featuring Charlie, Latin trash talk, Crowley the Grammar-Nazi and Dean getting lost. DONE!
1. Chapter 1

An alternative ending to Season 10 (and the series as a whole), diverging right before the end of episode 3: Soul Survivor. Dean kills Castiel, does darkside and brings Sam along. A sequel to Solid to Gas, features Demon!Dean, Soulless!Sam and a glimpse at Hell's tech support department. Contains references to The Princess Bride, Doctor Who and characters from Hellraiser (none of which I own, natch). The title refers to Harvey Dent's line from The Dark Knight: "You either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain."

**THE ROAD SO FAR: For those who don't want to read Solid to Gas, Doctor Abacad runs the Transanimation Wellness Clinic that offers soul extractions for (what she believes are) therapeutic purposes. She also owns a pair of enchanted glasses that allow her to see people's souls for medical examinations, which she wears on a librarian-style chain around her neck. A removed soul can deteriorate based on its host's behaviour and moral turpitude. Transanimation has the best legal team in the universe, except perhaps for Disney's, Microsoft's and Crowley's. **

**Tanya Ahlquist is a ruthless and wildly creative lawyer, who may or may not have had her soul removed. **

**Vandaveon Huggins is Transanimation's recptionist, who wears a simpler version of Abacad's enchanted glasses for security reasons. **

**The word _rooh_ is Persian (Abacad's native language) for soul.**

Sam held the demon blade to his brother's neck, adrenaline pumping and vision blurred with tears. Dean drank in Sam's trepidation and terror with a serene smile.

"Take your shot, Sammy. It's all you," sneered the demon, knowing what his brother would do. Dean felt an inkling behind him, and heard a soft, fluttering footstep.

Sam dropped the blade and it clattered to the floor. Dean smiled, allowed his eyes to go black, swiftly unsheathed his long chrome shank and whirled on Castiel. In the same motion, he buried the angel blade to the hilt in Cass' chest.

Sam screamed and fell to his knees as light poured from Castiel's eyes and mouth. The angel convulsed, shuddered and collapsed, buckling all the doors in the bunker's hallway. The younger Winchester grabbed Castiel's lifeless body in disbelief.

Dean pulled out the angel blade and casually stomped on Sam's leg, shattering his knee. Sam cried out in pain and anguish. Dean snorted. "Oh, unbunch your panties, Sam. How long, realistically, do you think Castiel is going to stay dead? Does he ever? Obviously he's got some friends in high places, so it's just a matter of time before we see him again. Bingo-bango and he's right back again, like a rash. A very very important rash. As for you…" Dean picked up the demon blade and crouched beside his brother. Sam flinched. Dean smiled and broke Sam's left tibia.

"You never gave up on me. I'm… well, I'm just touched. Really." He put his hand on Sam's neck. "You tried so damned hard to fix me, but you can't fix what ain't broken." Dean waggled the demon blade in front of Sam's face. "I can fix you, though. Allow me to open your eyes."

Dean sliced into his thumb and thrust the wound into his brother's mouth. Sam struggled but Dean gripped Sam by the hair and with his hobbled limbs, he couldn't go anywhere. Blood poured down his gullet and with it returned the delicious lusty rush of his old addiction. Sam let go and guzzled until he swooned and lost consciousness.

Dean smiled as he hogtied his blood-drunk brother and tossed him into the back seat of the Impala.

* * *

Several hours later, Crowley was greeted by a rather flustered demon aide. He mentioned something about a "situation" that required a "decision" on his part. Upon requesting clarification, the aide described a "package from everyone's favourite not-particularly-evil demon". With no little irritation, the king of hell followed the intern.

He was led to the trussed and injured Sam Winchester, whose irises had been eaten by his pupils. His mouth was duct taped shut and there was a note in his pocket addressed to Crowley. The intern handed it to him.

"We thought it prudent to let you be the first."

Crowley opened the note and immediately recognized Dean's handwriting.

"FREE TO A GOOD HOME: Sam Winchester, pedigreed and (mostly) housebroken saviour of world. Requires steady diet of demon blood, chick flicks and salad."

* * *

The Impala's engine roared and Dean's phone rang.

"What's new, Scruffy?" answered Dean jovially.

"What do you think you're playing at?" barked Crowley, "I don't run a ruddy babysitting service."

"You don't? Isn't this the Betty Ford Centre?"

"You think you're being funny, do you? Dumping your gigantic lunkhead on my doorstep? It's a miracle that none of the peons killed him. He's not the most popular oaf in the pit you know."

"I know. This is temporary while I'm away. You're going to fix him up."

Crowley sneered, "Sorry, Hell is fresh out of plasters and Bactine."

"You know what I mean. You're going to do to him what you did to me."

"Eh?"

"Rehabilitate him so maybe, for once in our lives, we can see eye to inky black eye."

Crowley was flabbergasted. "I can't. You were a special case. There's only one Mark of Cain."

"Alright fine." Dean paused. "So pull out his soul."

"You're having a laugh! How am I supposed to do that?"

"Do whatever Abaddon did."

"Oh, brilliant! Why don't I just give her a ring then and ask her to fax me over the instructions? This is a terrible idea. Without his soul, your brother will be a complete maniac. Again."

"Crowley, are you being unhelpful on purpose? I'm sure you can figure something out. You're a clever little man. Anyway, I've got to let you go. Lots on my To Do List. Enjoy the gift. I know it's not as nice as the one you got for me, but I hope that it will do." Dean glanced at a bundle of fabric on the passenger seat.

"Gift? What gift?"

Dean smiled. "Old Donkey Teeth."

"No," said Crowley, his voice rising in pitch. "There's no way you could have found the First Blade. I hid it perfectly."

"Yeah, in Cuthbert Sinclair's bunker, clever. I heard it calling. I would have heard it from any little hidey-hole you had stashed it. You can't hide it from me any more than it could be hidden from Cain. I am Cain."

"Dean," stammered Crowley, "listen to me…"

"Oh relax, will you? I'm not gunning for you. Yet. Just do as I say. Upgrade Sam. I'll be in touch."

* * *

Amanda Trenton was beside herself at the sight of her husband Cole. Despite his dislocated shoulder he held tight to his library books as his puffy face oozed blood onto them. Cole gurgled instructions to his wife about applying salt to the doorways and sigils to the walls. It was only after they were safely affixed that the injured marine collapsed into unconsciousness on his bed.

Amanda's immediate alarm turned to seeping dread as her husband healed and became obsessed with religious arcane. What she had gleaned from his fevered ramblings was that Cole had indeed found and confronted his father's murderer, who had then viciously pummelled him to within an inch of his life. He was also under the impression that Dean Winchester is some sort of Hell-spawned supervillain, and he'd sought out expertise so that Cole wouldn't find himself outgunned "next time". Always with the "next time".

It was a few weeks before the "next time" happened. A dented black muscle car purred to a halt at the Trenton home and out emerged a tall, handsome man who needed a shave and wore a hell of a scowl. Amanda recognized him immediately from Cole's collage.

* * *

Doctor Behrooz Abacad noticed a most unwelcome name on her calendar, apparently scheduled for a preliminary consultation. She asked around and neither Van in reception nor anyone else could remember having made the appointment, which was slated to start in ten minutes.

Abacad went to her office, put a cup of coffee on her desk in front of her guest chair, pulled it out, then sat in her own and waited. In it appeared Crowley, as expected. What she didn't expect was the tall, injured and gagged guest that the demon king plunked into the second chair.

"Good afternoon, Behrooz. You look less than happy to see me." Crowley smiled and, without ungagging Sam, slid the coffee over to him. "Some java for the moose? I never touch the stuff myself, but let it never be said that your clinic lacks hospitality."

* * *

Dean knocked again on the door behind which cowered Amanda. The way he looked at the door made her feel as though it weren't there at all; like he could see straight through it. She knew that whether or not she answered the door, he'd never believe no one was home. Dean leaned against the brick wall and picked at his cuticle. He glanced at the door and Amanda watched him count to three on his fingers, then rear back.

She jumped back from the peephole and watched in horror as the doorframe shattered against his heel.

Dean stood in the doorway and gave Amanda a warm smile. "Afternoon, ma'am. May I come in? I've an appointment with – your husband? I'm expected."

"You can't come in unless I invite you, can you?"

Dean stepped across the threshold. "I just thought I'd be polite. So where is… wow, I don't even know his name. Inigo Montoya." Dean strode past Amanda and stopped quickly before stepping onto the throw rug. He very carefully stepped around it and headed for the kitchen. "Montoya!"

"His name is Cole," said Amanda.

Dean peered at the framed photos on the mantle of the marine's smiling family and platoon. In the kitchen, he took in the dentist's reminders and child's report cards on the fridge. "I have to admit," he said to himself, "I did not see this coming."

Cole splashed Dean with holy water, at which he recoiled. "Ain't the only thing you didn't see coming."

* * *

"Alright Mister Crowley, let's conduct our business and be done with it," said Doctor Abacad in clipped, measured tones. "What is it I can do for you this afternoon?"

"I'd like to arrange an animectomy for my large friend here," said Crowley with a breezy smile, motioning to Sam. Sam's eyes went wide, he leaned forward and shook his head with muffled but vehement objections.

"Not possible," replied Abacad, maintaining cool composure. "Every patient must agree to the procedure themselves. It cannot be arranged on behalf of someone else."

"Oh come off it," scoffed Crowley. "It's not like anyone ever consults cats before they're neutered."

"That has absolutely nothing to do with this conversation. Why don't we ask Mister Winchester to speak for himself? He seems eager to weigh in on this matter."

"The duct tape stays where it is," replied the king.

The doctor frowned. "Where is his brother? Why isn't he here? I would speak to him."

"Cain is Abel's keeper, not the other way around. Besides, this whole little nip-tuck was his idea."

"Mister Crowley, I think you should remove my name from your Rolodex. Our meetings are never productive." Doctor Abacad stood up. "I will not do this to him under any circumstances."

"Oh no?"

* * *

Cole shook salt at Dean, who retreated again. "I'm ready for you this time."

Dean raised his hand and slammed Cole into the wall with his mind. "That's what you said last time. Hubris…" He pressed harder and Cole winced. "…it'll be the death of you."

Cole roared in frustration and despair. "Whatever you're going to do, just do it! Why mess with me? Just leave my family alone."

The demon smiled. "Originally, the plan was just to kill you. Bust into your paranoid little underground hovel and splatter your entrails all over your hot plate and bare light bulb. But this?" Dean flicked his eyes around the room. "You've got a nice little home life here. A lot to lose. And boy, will you ever." He dropped the marine, who landed on his feet, seized a kitchen knife and came in with a wild, slashing attack.

The butcher knife found Dean's hands and he was bleeding before he knocked Cole's feet out from under him and dispassionately sliced through both his Achilles tendons.

Cole crawled into the living room where he saw his wife pointing a gun at Dean and his son with the cordless phone in his hand, calling 911. The dispatcher could be heard on the line and Dean swiftly pulled the phone out of the boy's hand.

"Hi. Hiya doin'? We need police and an ambulance. There's an intruder at…" Dean handed the phone back to Cole's son. "Where do you live, kiddo? Why don't you take over?"

Amid Cole's spluttering warning, Amanda's fired at the demon, hitting him in the left shoulder. Dean yanked the gun out of her hand and threw it across the room.

"I gotta say, I'm really impressed with your family's composure, Cole," said Dean, regarding the woman and the boy. "If you had to choose one over the other, who would it be?"

"You evil son of a bitch," spat Cole.

"Your son?" Dean bent over. "Is that what you said?"

"No!"

"You're the boss." The demon strode toward Amanda and locked her arm behind her in a vise-like grip. He put his other hand on her shoulder and marched her toward the door. "If you struggle, I'll break your collarbone."

"Mom!" yelled the boy, lunging toward Dean. The demon extended his knee, catching him in the chest and knocking him flat. Dean bent to look at the prone boy. He didn't let go of Amanda though, and she had to follow him to the floor or dislocate her shoulder.

"What's your name?" asked Dean.

"Don't tell him!" bleated Cole.

"Lucas."

"Look at me, Lucas. Take a good look at my face." Dean flicked his eyes to black and smiled. "You'll be seeing me again down the road." He stood up, prompting a yelp from Amanda. "Let's go, Buttercup. If you make me cuff you, I will cuff you."

* * *

"_Bazem in ghaziye_," muttered Abacad, crossly. "I will not be threatened, Crowley. You cannot buy me or force my hand. What will you do, kill me? Where's your animectomy then?"

"I could close your clinic."

"You don't have the power to do that. I suppose you're going to threaten my husband next?"

"No point," said Crowley nonchalantly. "We both know that Sandeep is on a Caribbean cruise, drinking from coconuts, telling the tanned boys that his name is Lucio and generally doing what men do alone at sea. I'd bugger him myself if I thought it would bother you. No, I'm going to hit you in the vault. That is, of course, where it really hurts, isn't it?"

"There is no getting into the vault unauthorized, not for you or anyone else. It's warded to the nines against the likes of you."

"And what if it weren't? What if I were to bring all those souls back to the office with me?"

"Who died and made you Saint Peter?" countered the doctor.

"I doubt he'd have much sympathy for any of your specimens. We both know where they belong."

"Again, Hell has no jurisdiction here."

"I could feed them all to Egypt's soul-eating crocodile."

"No you couldn't. Besides, I don't think he's still around. Egypt went Muslim."

Something occurred to Crowley. He smiled. "I could send them to the Drujo-demana."

Doctor Abacad's jaw dropped. She took several seconds to form her retort. "Nobody in the freezer is Zoroastrian."

"But you are. I could use your faith to send them there."

The doctor was speechless. Her hand went to her Ahura Mazda pendant and she contemplated the sinners' underworld of her creed. Finally she frowned and answered. "Fine. Go ahead. Most of those souls could use the lessons learned in the Drujo-demana. Everyone deserves a second chance."

"And what if, dear Behrooz, that's not what they would get once they're there?"

"What are you talking about? That's Rashnu's decision to make, not yours."

"True, but at this point in history, I vastly outrank him. It wouldn't take much to annex your Hell and absorb it into mine. Rashnu owes me a favor anyway. I will turn it into the new inferno. Version 2.0."

Doctor Abacad was shaking. She replied in Farsi, "You can't. You wouldn't."

"Try me."

The doctor closed her eyes and clenched her fists until her knuckles turned white and cracked. "Let me make sure I understand. You are threatening to turn the recuperative afterlife of my ancestors into another common suffering pit…"

"From which there is no release," added Crowley smugly.

"In order to get me to do something you want. ARE YOU MAD?" the surgeon bellowed, face flushed and getting to her feet. "You would curse everyone there? You would expend that much energy and pull simply to spite me? This is insane! Surely a man of your means, in your line of work has other avenues he could pursue to achieve his ends. Why are you doing this? Why is this so important?!"

Crowley took in Abacad's anger placidly. "I'm glad we understand each other,"

She looked from the demon to his prisoner and back again, and realized he wasn't bluffing. She slumped and looked at Sam sadly. "Please accept me deepest apologies, Mister Winchester." She turned back to Crowley. "Please, at the very least, allow my office to draft the contract. I wish to ensure I don't cause any more damage than absolutely necessary." She donned her glasses.

"Ever the consummate professional," answered Crowley, joining the doctor beside Sam as she examined him. "I can live with your terms, I'm sure."

Abacad patted Sam apologetically and studied his torso. "There may be complications. Your _rooh_ is in two pieces, are you aware?" Sam, surprised, shook his head. "I will schedule your procedure for 11:30, January 8th. That's the earliest this can be done. Expect a bill for this consultation, Mister Crowley." Abacad turned back to the demon and, through her glasses, noticed something in his chest. She got a closer look and Crowley squirmed backwards, visibly uncomfortable. A grin spread across her face as she looked from Crowley's heart to his face and back again.

Crowley frowned irritably and folded his arms. "I'm sure your fees will be a relative bargain."

"Please arrive at the appointment 2 hours early to fill out paperwork and review our policies and waivers. The next time I see this young gentleman, I expect his injuries to be mended. Please see to that, Mister Crowley," she said, smirking again as she said his name. "Now if you'll excuse me, it's getting late, and I don't want to miss the beginning of the Seahawks game."

Crowley was about to snap his fingers when Abacad interjected. "One more thing you should know…" The demon rolled his eyes and the surgeon continued. "No matter how you squeeze or threaten me, this animectomy will not bring your love back to you." Crowley looked genuinely affronted. Abacad stepped toward him. "No matter what you do to Sam, Dean belongs to him, not to you. You will never have your… drinking buddy back."

* * *

Back in Hell, Dean was in heaven.

"Good old Pinchy," he said, patting the steel rack upon which was strapped Amanda Trenton. "We had such fun together. Bit of an acquired taste, but he'll grow on you."

"What are you going to do to me?"

Dean smiled, sighed and revealed black eyes. "Everything." He opened a trunk and pulled out three canes of various widths. He flicked his eyes back to hazel. "This is the room where anything can happen. Smacking you around, slicing you up, that's all just child's play. The good part starts when we start to see what the regimen does to you."

"What will it do to me?"

"That's what I'm dying to find out. Everyone is different. Some people break, some people don't, some people make friends with the pain and use it to transform into something else entirely. How do you think I got this way, Buttercup?"

"That's not my name," said Amanda.

"I don't care. It is now."

"Why are you doing this? Where are we?"

Dean pulled a Whippersnipper out of the trunk with a flourish. "Haven't you guessed? Abandon all hope, darling."

"I'm in Hell? I don't deserve Hell. I'm not perfect, but I shouldn't be damned."

"Them's the breaks. Besides, I'm a knight. I can do what I want."

"Ooh, a knight." Amanda sneered. "Lucky-ass me."

"I like you," said Dean before smacking her viciously with the thick cane. "This is gonna be fun." He pulled his phone out of his pocket, looked at the screen, then grunted in dismay. "Duh, no signal. Come on, Dean!"

* * *

Tanya Ahlquist was the lawyer that Transanimation Wellness Clinic retained to draw the contract for the animectomy of Samuel Winchester. Crowley, familiar with her ruthlessness and skill, raised some cursory objections based on a possible conflict of interest, but once everything was cleared up, Ahlquist wove an impenetrable and completely airtight and bulletproof agreement.

Sam's soul would reside in perpetuity in Transanimation's medical waste vault with the others. In ten years, it could, if Sam himself so desired, be returned to his body. While disembodied, however, it was not to leave Abacad's custody, unless her custody became utterly impractical. The reasons for any hypothetical end to the viability of Transanimation must have absolutely nothing to do with infernal forces, and at such time it can only be remanded into Sam's own possession. Dean Winchester was added as a last-minute possible stand-in, but only as a last resort.

The final bill, which included all consultation, insurance, parts, labour and legal fees amounted to just under 18 million dollars.

* * *

Crowley was just cutting the cheque when his phone rang.

"Speak to the devil," he answered gruffly.

"Sir, did you authorize the use of Chamber BF X08, as well as a two-way interdimensional passage for two? Nobody on our end was given the heads-up."

"This is the first I'm hearing about this. Who requested this?"

"There was no formal request made," explained the nameless underling, "he just showed up."

Crowley rubbed his beard hard. "Who was this, then?" he asked, knowing he didn't have to.

"I think his name is Gene Winchester."

"It's 'Dean', you gutless git!" snapped Crowley. "It's been a bloody decade and you must be the last infernal ninny who doesn't know that name!"

* * *

In Chamber BF X08, Dean did successfully become connected to what sounded like tech support to ask about making an interdimensional call.

"Thank you for calling Infernal Systems tech support," said the dry, pleasant generic female voice before it erupted into giggles. "Your… hee hee… your call… khh he he… okay… Your call is… very important to us!" The recording's laughter continued for approximately 90 seconds, before a long recorded menu played enumerating any and all possible departments of Hell. After four minutes or so, just as Dean's straining patience was reaching the boiling point, came the menu's final option: "To speak to an agent, please press 6664402200000008648, or simply say the word 'agent' in Russian with a Chinese accent."

Miraculously, Dean entered the 22 digits correctly on the first try and after listening to 2 minutes of Jessica Simpson, the line on the other end connected. "Good morning today, ma'am!" said a ridiculously chipper voice with the thickest, most incomprehensible Punjabi accent Dean had ever heard. "And how are we going today? How may I help your order today, please?"

"This is Dean Winchester," boomed the demon. "I need to make a call to Earth."

"Oh, I'm sorry, dude," said the same voice, now in unaccented American English. "I thought you were one of the sinners. We can get you hooked up, easy. Why didn't you call the direct line?" Dean grunted in exasperation and glanced at Amanda on the rack, who had been listening intently. Despite her injuries, an amused smirk spread across her puffy face.

* * *

In five minutes, Sully, one of Hell's many IT technicians arrived in Dean's torture chamber. "Alrighty then," began the flannel-clad twenty-something. He cracked open the back of Dean's cell and inserted what looked like an electronic rune stone. "A bit of jiggery-pokery and you're ready to rock and roll." He handed the phone back to Dean.

"That's it?" asked Dean. He peered at his cellphone, which still looked deceptively ordinary. "How does it work?"

"Well, not to get too technical, but it emits a stronger-than-normal signal to our AT&amp;T towers. It's so strong, in fact, that it would probably fry off your ear if you were human, which you're not," explained Sully with a flourish. "Also, to correct for the time-flow disparity between dimensions, it creates a timey-wimey bubble around the speaker on this end, which is internally quantum wibbly-wobbly stabilized." Dean frowned at him, wordlessly. Sully gulped. "In other words, you're golden. Go ahead and make a call."

"Thanks, geek," said Dean. "How did you get this job, anyway?"

The skinny kid smiled. "This is my heaven, man. Take it easy." Before he left, he spotted Amanda on the rack. He looked her up and down in admiration, and added "Can I take a crack at her when you're done?"

"We'll see."

* * *

Sam could not figure out where he was. The room had no doors of windows, but that was the only feature that might indicate it was a prison cell. The leather furniture, the buffet table, ample bookcase and whisky decanter all suggested a lounge. It would have been easier for Sam to make himself comfortable if the room could make up its mind. At least his gag was gone. He rolled his shoulders and ankles, and found them all healed.

"Terrific, you're up," came Crowley's voice from behind him. Sam turned and saw him there, holding a Thermos and a glass. "Let's get this out of the way, shall we?"

"Look, I don't know what this is," Sam said as Crowley calmly poured him a glass of dark demon blood from the Thermos, "but I am not going to be your puppet."

"_My_ puppet? Perish the thought." Crowley sat in a stuffed chair, put the glass on a round mahogany table right next to Sam. "Down the hatch. Yum yum."

"I'm not touching that."

"If it helps, don't look at this as payback for that South Beach juice diet you put me through. It's a gesture of goodwill, one junkie to another. And since it's mine, it should be at least 7% alcohol. Enjoy."

Sam could smell it already. It was tantalizing. "I can't. Not this. Not again."

"'Course you can. Don't be an ingrate. You think I like coming down here, giving up pints of Chateau de Crowley?"

"_Yes_."

Crowley grimaced quickly, then continued to sit in silence, staring pointedly at Sam. He watched as Sam's eyes flicked occasionally to the glass of dark blood. He sat down bitterly, trying not to think about his offered beverage. Sam drummed his fingers. "Won't stay warm forever," prodded Crowley, helpfully.

Sam closed his eyes and the inviting smell beckoned to him, promising relief, strength, clarity, energy, comfort, virility, gratification, ecstasy…

Sam seized the glass and drank deep, slurping at the dregs and sucking his teeth.

"Attaboy," said Crowley, getting to his feet. "Rest up, help yourself to the library, and if you need anything from the _concierge_, just ring 666. I'll be on my way."

Sam made no motion to get up. He plunked the glass down loudly on the tabletop and jabbed his finger at it insistently. He frowned at Crowley, who happily refilled it from the Thermos. Sam guzzled it hungrily.

* * *

"Hey Buttercup, have you ever met a demon named Alastair?" asked Dean.

Amanda's eyes widened in exasperation. "Why the hell would…" she realized it was useless. "No, no I have never met a demon named Alastair."

"Oh yeah, he would have died a while ago. Anyway, he used to be Mister Suffering down here. Real nasty son of a bitch. Taught me everything he knew. He was good at what he did, and he must have really been something before electricity. But he was completely analog." Dean waggled his phone. "There's a whole new world of social media torture that was completely lost on him. So, at the risk of sounding retro, let's reach out and touch someone." Dean picked up a sharpened soil turner.

* * *

Cole was still hugging his son and waiting for an ambulance when the phone rang. The man and the boy were too shaken to answer, and it went straight to the answering machine.

"Hiya, Inigo!" came Dean's merry voice. "And a one, and a two, and a…" He began to belt out a song, while stabbing his victim between lines, prompting a scream.

"WHY do you build me up…"

Jab. "Augh!"

"Buttercup, baby, just to let me down…"

Jab. "Jesus!"

"…mess me around, and worst of all…"

A deeper jab, a more painful scream.

"You never call baby, when you say you will…"

Jab. "Stop!"

"…and I love you still. I need you!" Instead of stabbing her, Dean stuck the phone in Amanda's face.

"I need you?" she offered. Dean smiled and continued.

"More than anyone, darling, knew that I did from the start. So build me up…"

A jab, a grunt.

"…Buttercup, don't break my heart."

Cole could hear his wife in the background of the recording. "Just put your damn phone on speaker, you idiot dickwad!"

"Ooh hoo, you hear that marine? I like your missus. Buttercup had such a beautiful singing voice, but no head for lyrics. What a pity. Anyway, gimme a call back at this number and we can talk. I'm sure she'd like a word, too. Say goodbye, princess."

As quickly as she could, Amanda said "Cole, I'm so sorry, I love…" _Click._

* * *

Crowley continued feeding Sam his own blood twice a day, which struck him as kind of poetic given the reverse-demon gauntlet Sam had put him through in 2013. While he was contemplating the weird, symbiotic, cannibalistic relationship between himself and the younger Winchester, he found Doctor Abacad's words seeping back into his head.

If he were completely honest, they really stung. Once he'd returned to the Inferno, Crowley thought of a million nasty comebacks he wish he'd spat in her face at the time. _Yeah, well, my forces assassinated Mossadegh, so there! _Crowley had half a mind to annex the Drujo-demana anyway, just to spite her.

He was stewing the whole time he fed Sam the morning of the 8th. "Let's get a move on, Moose. We have an appointment with the Disagreeable Doctor Dingbat in half an hour. I shudder to think what her cancellation fees are like."

* * *

Sam waited for the brilliant surgeon in his skivvies. He was sitting in the OR, on the table covered in crinkly paper. Abacad entered slowly, holding Sam's meagre medical file. She avoided his gaze. "You're looking well this morning, Mister Winchester. How is the knee?"

"We don't have to do this," said Sam. "The pleasantries. Let's cut to the chase."

Doctor Abacad finally looked Sam in the face. "I am so sorry," she breathed. "Please forgive me. I have never before performed this procedure for this reason." Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. "If it helps, it is completely reversible and temporary. I will take the utmost care of your _rooh_. You have my word."

Sam looked at the wall in disgust. "Whatever."

"Please understand the stakes," pleaded the doctor. "I can't let Crowley raze the Iranian afterlife. Can you imagine if someone were to completely break paradise? Decimate the Host?"

"Metatron did that to heaven a year ago, and the angels culled their own numbers even before that. Heaven had been in shambles for years."

Abacad raised her eyebrows. "I had no idea. I'm so sorry."

"Stop saying that. Let's do this thing." Sam picked up a nearby pencil and bit down on it.

"You know, when I looked at your contract through my glasses, your signature looked as though it had been made while you were inebriated. Originally I thought it may have been a forgery, or perhaps that you had simply been drinking. But that's not it, is it?" She put on her glasses and looked into his left eye. "What is it, exactly, on which you are drunk? You… it looks like Mister Crowley has branded you."

"Yeah, well, you should see the other guy. Seriously let's go."

"Sam Winchester," said the doctor as slowly and clearly as she could. "Please listen to me as hard as you can. I will safeguard your _rooh_ with everything I have, but you remain its master. Behave well and cause it no damage, I implore you. Remember what Stanis Vitrioli did to his."

Sam nodded solemnly and the doctor picked up her syringe of iridescent purple anaesthetic and got to work. If Sam hadn't been so loopy and blissful in the dense fog of narcotic, he might have noticed the surgeon silently weeping behind her paper mask.

* * *

Cole Trenton was bandaged and back from the hospital five days before he worked up the nerve to call the number the monster had left him. He couldn't be sure that he wouldn't just taunt and torment him, but he needed to know that Amanda was still alive. He dialled.

"Took you long enough," said Dean with a smirk. "How's it hanging?"

"What have you done to my wife?" asked Cole, trying not to sound as pained as he was.

"Good lord, what _haven't_ I done to your wife?" answered Dean genially, giving his captive a playful slap with a riding crop. "I burned her, whacked her, waxed her, peeled her, fed her garbage juice, carved a smile onto her face, used her as a toilet, rode her like a pony, used her for a rowboat… Oh! And I just finished blimping her up to 350lbs and setting her on fire. All in all I'd have to say she's had a rough couple of years, and I'm just warming up."

"Did you say you used her as a rowboat?"

"Yeah. Not that much fun, it turns out. She can't float worth beans."

"You did all this in a week?" asked Cole. "I don't believe you. How is she still alive?"

"Nothing dies in Hell, and we're running on Inception time. Anyway, I'm sure Buttercup would love to say hello, but her vocal chords are still growing back, so that's not really in the cards. Unless… hey princess, want to whistle at your hubby?"

Cole could hear a tiny, ragged whistled tune: The Super Mario Brothers song. His eyes filled with tears and his heartfelt curse caught in his throat.

"Wow, did you hear that?" continued Dean, unfazed. "Still spunky after all this time. She is, so far, my favorite playmate. I don't know if I'll ever break this toy."

"You beast," Cole finally managed. "You inhuman monster. I am going to kill you."

"Right. 'Cause that worked out so well for you last time."

"I mean it. You are going to die."

"Enh, save it." Dean paused. "Actually, you know what? Sure. Come on after me. I'm more than happy to whup your ass and twist the knife over and over again. Guys like you, you never learn, do you? The Inigo Montoyas of the world were made to suffer."

* * *

Dean hung up and patted Amanda's cheek. "Buttercup, I have to boogie. I'm supposed to pick up my kid brother from daycare. You be a good girl and I'll be back before you know it." He gave her a quick kiss on the forehead and called Sully in IT. He told him to "keep her warm" until he got back, then headed back to Earth.

When Sully arrived at Chamber BF X08, he found it vacant.

* * *

"Where's Doctor Abacad?" Crowley asked Vandaveon. He was holding a bag of popcorn and offered some to the receptionist. Van declined.

"Isn't she in the OR working on your friend?"

"No, Sam's in the recovery room and she's not in her office. Has anyone seen her?"

"Vandaveon, please do not talk to this man," said Abacad, joining the men in the foyer. Crowley remarked that the room she had emerged from was a supply closet, if he remembered correctly. Her eyes seemed slightly red and she had removed her mascara, and when Crowley realized that she'd been crying, he grimaced in sympathy.

"The patient will be ready to leave in twenty minutes," she continued, as outwardly composed as ever. "He is to be handed over to his brother and not to you. I shall wait with him until Dean arrives. Do you have your invoice for the procedure?" The receptionist nodded and gestured to Crowley. "Then you can be on your way. I'm sure you're a very busy man." She looked at the demon and watched him try to think of something to say. "You're excused, Mister Crowley. Please show yourself out."

Just then, Van jumped and blurted, "Oh hell!"

Dean Winchester strode into reception and Abacad looked from him to her bespectacled receptionist, who was visibly, quietly frightened. Van looked urgently to the doctor, and pointed to the elder brother with his eyes.

Abacad looked warily at Dean. "Good afternoon, Mister Winchester. You can collect your brother soon. Would you like to take a seat?"

"Sounds good," he said dispassionately and turned from Crowley to the seating area.

Crowley followed him angrily. "What's this I hear of you dragging some bitch to Hell?"

"Oh yeah," replied Dean blithely. "I needed a torture chamber, and the ones there have the best acoustics. Not to mention the tools."

"You can't just bring in anyone you please, least of all a living person!"

"Of course I can. I did."

"You don't understand," spat Crowley, jabbing Dean in the chest. "Damnation is a whole cosmic process. The only way to circumvent it immediately is by Crossroads Deal. Who died and made you Saint Peter?" The doctor looked at Crowley.

"You need to relax and get out of my face." Crowley didn't move, so Dean shoved him.

"Enough!" boomed Abacad, stomping over to the pair. "You! Go find Sam! He's in room 3, on the left. And you!" she whirled on Crowley, who flinched. "Get the hell out of my clinic!"

Dean's nostrils flared and he reached for something at the small of his back. Crowley's eyes went wide and he grabbed Dean's wrist. "I concede! We don't have a problem here. I'll just push off now, Behrooz. As always, it was a pleasure. Here, have some popcorn." He thrust the bag at her and gave Dean a quick, tight-lipped shake of his head before he left. Dean frowned and his hand left the hilt of the First Blade.

The doctor looked confused and reached for her glasses.

"Wouldn't do that," grunted Dean as he stalked toward the recovery room.

When his back was turned, she peeked at him through her enchanted glasses and almost fell over. She could see the swirling black storm of smoke that had once been his soul, and how it ached, twitched and turned around the Mark of Cain on his right arm. This was the first time she'd ever seen the corresponding Blade in his waistband though, and through her glasses, was aware that she was in the company of a divine atomic weapon. She fumbled her glasses off, held onto her pendant and thanked all listening deities that she had survived the exchange.

* * *

"Here he is!" beamed Dean beside his prone brother. Sam opened his eyes, revealing black irises. He looked at his brother. "How are ya feeling, champ?"

"Right as rain," replied Sam without expression. "What now?"

"Let's go on vacation."

"Dean, when you fed me your blood in the bunker, was this always your endgame?"

"No, I was just going to kill you. But who would gripe about my music then?"

"You just came up this plan on the fly?"

"What can I say?" answered Dean. "I'm good when I'm winging it."

"Have you ever drunk demon blood?"

"No, I'm a whisky man. What's with the questions, dude?"

"Oh, nothing." Sam raised his hand and picked up his brother with his mind. "I was just wondering if you remembered what it did." Dean coughed painfully and Sam dropped him. "Guess not. So where are we headed?"

* * *

Amanda wandered the murky earthen hallways through which echoed a harmony of the abject screams of profoundest suffering. She didn't know where she was, where she was going or even what her name was. She could feel the anguish of the damned resonate through her chest in time with the beating of her living heart. The only thing she knew for sure was that there was somewhere pressing to be. She was urgently expected, and she must hurry if she didn't want to be late.

After hours of aimless meandering in what was revealing itself to be a baffling infernal labyrinth, the woman finally came upon a single door. It was made of an internally luminescent metal and identified with a similarly lustrous plaque: The Phillip LeMarchand Studio of Symphonic Pain Sculpture. She opened the door, glad to have made it to her appointment in good time.

Inside she found a group of… people… perhaps. They had old, long-healed injuries that had been reset in bizarre ways that had reshaped their flesh. Their torsos and limbs were all stitched together in configurations that incorporated leather, stone and metal. They all turned to her at once, regarding her with their colourless, thoughtful eyes.

"Buttercup is not finished," said one.

Said another, "Someone had burned away her identity without furnishing her with a new one."

"Join us, beautiful," said the one standing in the middle of the room. "We will find you."

Buttercup joined the Cenobites but, try as they might, they were not able to slice her, stuff her or break her into any shape that resembled herself. The only thing they succeeded in doing, however, was raising a mark on her forehead. Right above her left eyebrow appeared a small, vaguely triangular smudge of soot, and the more they pulled, sliced, stretched, hooked and bent her flesh, the darker and more distinct the shape became. This was the only effect their efforts were able to produce, and by the time the Cenobites had concluded that she did not belong to them, the kiss on her forehead had taken on a definite inverted F shape.

"What a puzzle is Buttercup," remarked the female, with cheeks full of wire. "And how I do love puzzles. I long to see what emerges from her forehead."

"Sadly, she is not ours, nor is that our mystery to solve," replied a bloated, agendered mass with goggles. "We must return her to her plane."

"We'll use the instrument in reverse. The one by which Buttercup did not travel, but should have." The male with tacks in his scalp looked at her with wise, cold, black eyes. "Perhaps there will come a time when you are ready," he added, lovingly. "And so shall we be."

The LeMarchand Configuration Box spat Buttercup unceremoniously in a field in Tennessee. The kiss of Dean Winchester throbbed deep in her browbone and even though any mirror would have shown her nothing, she knew the scar was there. She knew only three things: that Angela (or whatever her name had been) no longer existed, she had been Marked by the monster who'd captured her, and she needed to find the Weapon, her scar demanded it.

She didn't know what it was called, but she knew what it looked like. It was old, the instrument of ancient, proto-murder and it needed her for some terrible, cosmic purpose. He could follow it to where it needed her to be. She spotted a farmhouse and decided to start there.

She knocked at the door and was greeted by a frowning beekeeper with a long grey beard and piercing blue eyes. A word erupted from Buttercup's throat, and she uttered it, not even knowing why she had: "Cain."

* * *

Despite the tremendous, heroic and epic effort that Cole put into finding her, he would never recognize his wife if he ever saw her again.

The ex-marine, one could argue, had never actually come back from the Gulf, and he brought his war with him wherever he went. How fortuitous, then, that a larger, sweeping war had found him. He had traded in his pickup truck for a 1969 Pontiac GTO, which the salesman had assured him "would still look badass when it's forty". Cole had also pulled Lucas out of school for the company. Without his son to anchor him, he didn't know if he'd have anything to keep his psyche together. Lucas would serve as his companion, his apprentice, and his reason not to blow his brains all over the dashboard.

Together they gained experience, expertise and trophies as they served as paranormal exterminators or sorts. Cole and Lucas learned of a large network of those who hunt demon and monsters, all of whom knew of the two Winchester brothers. The road to the elder brother led through a number of creatures of the night, all of whom were hungry, and all of whom met their ends at the hands of the man and his son. The true target of the Trenton's wrath however remained the Fraternal Order of Infernal Knights.

* * *

Word of the new Order of Hell's Knights spread through the Inferno. Time moves differently on that plane, and to much of the Legion, Azazel and his grand design were a very recent memory. The armies of Hell lined up, hungry for the leadership of the anointed chosen one, the avatar of the Morningstar, Sam Winchester, as well as his second in command. Dean was, for all intents and purposes, the Hand of the King, the wielder of the Blade, the bearer of the Mark and the Vader to Sam's Palpatine.

Crowley could feel the hearts and minds of his workforce slowly but surely slide out from under him. Every eye in the pit shifted to the two firebrand brothers, beside whom it was easy to feel unimpressive. And he did.

The King of the Crossroads had never been much of a soldier. He was an exemplary negotiator, but not a fighter… how did the saying go? And didn't he know someone else who matched that description?

* * *

Doctor Abacad was nothing if not organized, and closing Transanimation was a very efficient and precise process. The doctor was just finishing packing the last of her belongings into her large purse when she looked up and was startled to see Crowley standing across from her.

She jumped, snarling "_Ey baba gayidy"_ to herself. She scowled at the demon, wrote a quick note to herself to upgrade the warding in her office then turned to him. "Mister Crowley, you are familiar with this clinic's hours. I would appreciate it if you would respect them. Can we make this brief?"

"You know, I saved your life this afternoon."

"From a monster, while in the process of creating another monster at your behest. Thanks for that." The doctor stared angrily at the demon wordlessly for several seconds. Finally she added, "I'm waiting for you to tell me what you want, so I can refuse and be on my way."

"To catch the NFC playoff game, no doubt." Crowley snapped his fingers and two tickets appeared. "Care to join me in my box?" Doctor Abacad raised her eyebrows. "Well, it's Terrell Owens' box, but I own Terrell. Kickoff is in ninety minutes. Do you want to stop somewhere first?"

"What are you doing?"

"You're the one who said I need to find myself a new drinking buddy, so, Pikachu, I choose you."

"I don't drink."

"Figure of speech. Come along then, love."

"Is this some sort of business meeting? You want to show me some profit projections over chicken wings? What do you want?"

"Would you believe that I only want the pleasure of your company?"

Abacad crossed her arms. "No."

"What a low opinion you have of yourself. I'm the unstoppable force, you're the immovable object. I thought it might be fun to have a chat. Give me the glasses if you don't believe me."

Abacad picked up her Xray specs, but didn't put them on. "Why me? I'm sure you don't need to look far for someone to take to a football game. Terrell Owens can't be the only person you own."

"I don't own you."

"No, you don't." Crowley raised his eyebrows pointedly, waiting for her to see his point. "Really?"

"I can't help but notice you haven't said no yet."

Abacad slowly smiled and picked up her jacket. "Alright, thank you. You must allow me to buy the first round."

"Only a doctor could afford what I drink."

"And I will not have sex with you."

"Of course not!" Crowley helped her on with her jacket. "You're a married woman."

"May I ask what your name is?"

"Crowley."

"What is the rest of your name, Mister Crowley?"

He chewed his lip, and considered. "Fergus," he answered finally. "You're awfully forward, you are."

* * *

It was karaoke night at The Black Spur and the final two members of the Fraternal Order of the Knights of Perdition were hogging the microphone. The Hand of the Boy King had already offered rousing renditions of Chocolate Salty Balls, Paint It Black and Bartender before his younger brother was pickled enough to take the stage himself. Unfortunately, he'd also neglected to notice that it had been Dean that picked his song. Sam was at the chorus before he realized what he'd been assigned.

"The snow glows white on the mountain tonight, not a footprint to be seen…" warbled Sam tunelessly as he squinted at the screen and tried to orient himself. "A kingdom of isolation, and it looks like I'm the queen…" He looked alarmedly at Dean, who grinned from ear to ear and raised his beer encouragingly.

Sam shrugged and pressed on in earnest. When the chorus rolled around, he belted out the tune at the top of his lungs:

"Let it go, let it go, can't hold it back anymore! Let it go, let it go, walk away and slam the door!"

Dean roared, threw up his bullhorns and headbanged along to the ridiculous Disney song that his brother was singing with a voice that filled the room and shook the rafters. He drew whistles and applause from the patrons of the bar, got a small ovation upon completion, and left with more than one woman's phone number.

That night, for the first time in years, Sam and Dean rented separate motel rooms and stumbled into bed in the wee hours. They still ended up turning in within minutes of each other, bellies both full of beer and pub grub, and beds full of waitress.

* * *

Across the country, Lucas Trenton couldn't sleep. His father was fitfully sawing logs in the adjacent bed, uttering angry fragments between snores. The boy carefully got out of bed and went to the bathroom. He considered turning on the TV, but didn't think he'd be able to do it without disturbing his father. Instead, he decided to look for something to read.

Luke hadn't been allowed to take much when his father sold their house and took them on the road to fight "the good fight". He'd read and reread the same three books multiple times, but he was unlikely to find anything worth reading in a motel room. Besides the bible there was only the TV guide and the sparse menu of local attractions. One page, possibly worth reading, slipped off the armoire and landed on the floor between it and the wastebasket.

When the boy bent down in the darkness to pick it up, he noticed a small black cord with a clasp. When he pulled it, he found a small, horned tiki pendant that appeared to be long-forgotten. It was, if nothing else interesting, and Lucas put it on. He liked the weight against his chest. He went back to bed.

**BONUS! English-to-Farsi translations: **

_Bazem in ghaziye = "Ugh, again with this."_

_Ey baba gayidy = "Oh, for fuck's sake."_


	2. Sidewalk Zombies

_I remarked whilst walking about_

_Motherfuckers in need of a clout_

_"Remove thy dumb ass_

_From out of my path_

_Or find thyself knocked the fuck out!"_

_~E. Armstrong_

The last thing Brenden Knapmiller remembered was playing the Android number-sliding puzzle game 2048. He had once gotten to 4096, which made it all the more maddening that he was doing so poorly in the game so soon. He'd only managed to get to 1024 before the board was starting to close in on him.

He got off the bus and his eyes never left the screen. He ventured over to the crosswalk, vaguely aware of someone standing to his right. Brenden assumed that they had pushed the cross-request button, so there was no reason to look up from his Samsung Galaxy. He never felt a thing.

* * *

The next 28B bus opened its doors and Lily Chou got off by herself, continuing the lively conversation she'd started.

"Wow, what a bitch. I would never dream of saying that to anyone. Maybe next time you should reply with 'don't be mad at me; be mad at whoever did that to your hair.' It always works for me."

The sound of her friend's laughter warmed her and she stepped toward the pedestrian button. Her foot found something on the pavement, but her weight cracked its glass before she realized and lifted her shoe. Lily stepped back in alarm. There, surrounded by dots of black and red dripped fluid was the cellphone of Brenden Knapmiller. Its cracked face still displayed his dismal score, captioned with the large words _GAME OVER_.

* * *

At The Black Spur, Sam Winchester was really starting to love karaoke. In fact, his brother the demon had greased enough wheels and broken the right fingers ensuring that karaoke night was now every night. It might have been that his soul used to make him bashful but now that it was gone, he spent even more time at the microphone than Dean did.

"Harv, do you have anything stronger than this?" rasped Dean, pointing his empty glass at the haggard bartender. This was his, what? Seventh? Ninth whisky of the day? It seemed like his tolerance had gone through the roof, because today's he's definitely been lagging. Temperance is for the weak!

"I'm looking for a nice, cask-strength dram," he continued, "think 47 to 50 percent. Hook me up."

"Can do. Just give me a minute," replied Harv, who was just putting the finishing touches on a hurricane glass cocktail garnished with loads of fruit and a host of ridiculous novelty swizzle sticks. The bartender plunked it down on the bar in front of the empty seat beside Dean, who immediately looked behind him.

"Sometimes you just want to go where everybody knows your name," said Crowley, winking at Harv and picking up the cocktail.

"Please, no one's ever glad you came," growled Dean with a smirk. "I thought you were barred from this place after you beat the tar out of Anne-Marie's boyfriend."

Crowley sneered, confused. "That wasn't me, that was you."

"Oh yeah," said Dean, picking up the glass of clear fluid he's just been handed. "Good times," he raised his glass, slurped it down in one belt, then woofed in shock. "Yowch, now that's what I'm talking about. Harv, what was that?"

"Grain alcohol," grunted the bartender. Crowley recoiled, reviled.

"Yes! Makes ya feel alive." Dean squeezed the glass, which shattered in his hand. "Another!"

"We've talked about this," scolded Harv with a frown. "No more smashing bar ware."

"Better the glass than your face, ugly," replied Dean with a hard look. "Hit me." He brushed broken glass off his palm and wiped blood onto his pants. He could already feel the gouges closing themselves up. He turned to Crowley. "So what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?" His eyes flicked from Crowley to his drink in amusement.

"Got a job offer," replied Hell's king. "Surely you two are getting hoarse and would like a break. After all, you will eventually run out of Disney songs." He nodded to Sam on the stage, who was halfway through _Hakuna Matata_. He continued, "I'm sure you're itching for blood, and I've got something for you to kill."

"I don't work for you."

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Yes, I know. Dean Winchester works for no man. The Mindy Morris fiasco made that quite clear to me. Why didn't you kill her, again?"

"I'm not an assassin, I'm a hunter."

"Why didn't you bloody say, then? We could have captured her, released her in the woods, given you a pith helmet and a pack of hounds, then you could have had at it."

Dean turned his stool toward the bar without answering. He sipped his rotgut and shook his head.

"Very well, if it's a hunt you want, I've got just the thing for you. It'll be just like old times."

Dean looked back at Crowley. "Okay, I'll bite. What do you want dead?"

"A Leviathan," he answered.

Dean opened his mouth and inhaled, a pantomime of _aha_. "And the only reason you care is because those things are as big a threat to you as to anyone else."

"Did you think I'd suddenly grown a heart?" Crowley put his hand on his chest. "What really hurts is that I thought you knew me."

"In the Biblical sense," muttered Dean into his glass before knocking it back. "Alright, sure. Why not? We'll leave after this song."

"Wait, Sam's going with you? I didn't think he'd care."

"He doesn't. He doesn't care about anything, so he's pretty much game for anything. Look at him. It's not like he has anything better to do."

"Aren't you curious why I asked you?"

"Because none of your minions would be able to handle this. I get it." Dean wiped his mouth and got off his bar stool. "And because Cain's Mark demands blood and you care about me _so_ much." He squeezed Crowley's cheeks. "Hey, that's one Disney song we haven't sung yet: Caaaaan you feeeeel the looooove toniiiight…" He smiled at Crowley, amused by his discomfort and thinly veiled sadness. "Sammy?!"

* * *

In the car, Sam turned to Dean. "So now we care what Hell thinks?"

"What? No. What are you talking about?"

"You – we're working a case on behalf of Hell's interests," continued Sam. "They already think we're the leaders, are you sure you want to step into that role?"

"I'm not stepping into a role, I'm hunting a monster. It's a Wednesday like any other for us." Dean sneered and added mockingly "'Wah, you didn't kill Mindy Morrith', go screw yourself. I'll show you a hunter."

"Who's Mindy Morris?" asked Sam.

"Oh, the cheating wife of that sad sack whose soul you stole."

"I didn't steal anyone's soul."

"Keep telling yourself that, Sammy."

"And you were supposed to gank her? Why didn't you?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Ugh, I don't want to get into this again. She's alive because I got nothin' against hot blonde nymphos. What I hate is weasly hypocritical limp-dicks. I mean, did you see Lester's pathetic pornstache? That guy would have made anyone stab-happy. I'm not sorry I didn't kill his wife, I'm sorry I could only kill him once."

"Why did Crowley trust you to carry out another hit if you botched the first one?"

"Sam, are you _trying_ to get bitch-slapped?"

"Just making an observation."

* * *

The brothers drove through the night in silence, arriving in Pittsburgh at around noon. As they walked from the car to the police station, a familiar diminutive woman was just leaving. The redhead brightened at the sight of the Winchesters in their FBI agent suits.

"Jambo bitches," said Charlie with glee, trying to keep her voice down.

"Jambo bitch," replied Dean curtly, to her surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"Same thing you are, I'm guessing. If anyone asks, I'm the junior field agent and you're my liaison. We're hunting a Leviathan."

"We know," replied Sam blankly.

"What have you found out?" demanded Dean.

Charlie regarded the brothers critically. Neither seemed particularly happy to see her. "Why don't I fill you in over lunch? What are you boys in the mood for?"

"I don't care," replied Sam.

"I'm not hungry," added Dean.

"Mongolian hot pot it is!" said Charlie cheerfully, smiling and doing her best not to sound rattled.

* * *

Dean had never been to a Mongolian restaurant before, but if he's known what they were about, he would have said no. You didn't order a bowl of soup; what you got was a bowl of bubbling broth on the table's cooktop and it was up to the customer to boil raw meats and veggies in it without scalding themselves. Dean watched in distain as Sam stuffed his face with fishballs and Charlie filled, emptied and refilled her bowl with yu choi. _What a stupid freaking restaurant,_ he thought to himself. _Who the hell would want to have to put up with cooking their own food? I've never been gladder that I don't eat anymore._

"Charlie, can you fill us in on the situation so far?" he asked irritably.

She nodded and swallowed her big mouthful of noodles. "Whoever our guy is masquerading as," she began, "they've been feeding once, sometimes twice a day, usually during rush hour or lunchtime. They never hunt from the same stretch of sidewalk twice."

"Have you been able to pick out a pattern?" asked Sam.

"If you can tell us where it's going to be, we'll kill it," added Dean. "You point, we slash. I want you out of the line of fire."

"That's my old Dean," replied Charlie, reaching across the table and slapping him playfully in the arm. "You two had me worried there for a minute. You kinda seemed like…" she glanced two and from the brothers' faces and her smile faded. "…pod people."

The elder Winchester watched her patiently, waiting for her to get whatever this was out of her system. "The pattern?"

"Right!" continued Charlie. "For the first week or so, the Leviathan was feeding on Sucrocorp employees? Then they started eating anyone walking to and from their office towers, then they branched out a bit further." She pulled a note out of her pocket and handed it to Dean. He unfolded it, revealing a hand-drawn map of city streets, with some symbol on it in multicoloured marker. "The Xes are spots where they've hit," explained Charlie, "and I think tomorrow they're going to take a pedestrian from one of the three streets marked in orange."

"You think the First Blade could kill a Leviathan?" Sam asked Dean.

"It should. It kills everything else."

"What's a First Blade?" asked Charlie.

Dean pulled it out of his waistband, scooched around the table to sit next to Charlie on the bench and showed her. He twisted it in his grip and said "I am become Death, destroyer of worlds."

"Hah, the Bhagavad Gita, nice!" replied Charlie appreciatively. Dean leaned forward and slid it back into his waistband. Charlie canted her neck. "What's on your elbow there? Did you burn yourself?"

"Don't worry about it," grunted Dean as he slid back into his seat.

"It's the Mark of Cain," said Sam helpfully. Then he shoved a glob of cabbage into his mouth.

Charlie frowned at Dean in aghast surprise. _How are you acting like this is not a big deal?_ Her squinting turned to wide-eyed wonder as she mulled over what this meant. "The Mark of the… Biblical Cain? So that caveman knife… is the, what? The world's first murder weapon?"

Sam raised his eyebrows and nodded.

"I never thought about it like that," added Dean with a shrug.

"WHY do you have that?" she blurted. "Where the hell did you even get it?" She leaned forward and glowered at Dean, who was making every effort to avoid eye contact. "What did you do, Dean?"

"Thanks for the intel. Always a pleasure, Charlie. We'll take it from here." Dean stood up and dropped some bills on the table as Sam wiped his mouth and pushed back in his chair.

"Hey, what gives?" objected Charlie. "You can't just hit me with a haiku then bugger off!"

"Finish your lunch. It's on me. Come on, Sam."

"We'll be in touch," said Sam as he hurried to follow his brother.

Dean quickly dialled Crowley, whose operatives were able to deduce where, exactly the Leviathan could be found next.

* * *

At 5:10 that night, the office buildings poured out their contents onto the sidewalk: men and women all in suits, all with attaché bags slung over their shoulders, all with smartphones in their right hands and milling obliviously every which way.

Hell's intelligence was able to identify the Leviathan as currently in the guise of a middle-aged Asian man with a propensity to wear blue.

Charlie, as commanded, had made herself scarce and the brothers were spread out, watching for their target, or, ideally, a flash of a gaping mouth full of lamprey teeth.

Most of the targets walking past were preoccupied but sure enough, one man walked by with his eyes on the other pedestrians, rather than his phone. Dean watched with hawk eyes as his mark singled out another pedestrian and made a beeline toward her.

Dean watched the Leviathan lick its chops, revealing its rows of sharp teeth. Dean pulled the Blade out of his waistband and advanced, but was stopped abruptly by an invisible wall. He was three feet from the monster and unable to advance another step. He looked down, saw that he'd just walked across a Devil's Trap and barked in frustration.

"Sam!" Dean called and tossed the weapon to his brother. The Leviathan spotted the demon, abandoned its prey and ran into an alley.

Charlie emerged from the sea of pedestrians with trepidation, a can of white spray paint in her hand.

"What the hell?" they asked each other in unison, Dean with rage and Charlie with sadness and confusion.

"You almost FUBARed this whole operation! Gimme that spray paint," snarled Dean, moving to grab it.

Charlie held it beyond the ring of the Devil's Trap and Dean's hand hit the force field impotently. "Who are you?" she asked.

"I'm myself. We don't have time for this. You've had your fun, now let me out."

"We're gonna have words," she said, pointing the can at him as if it were lethal. "You owe me that."

Dean grabbed her roughly by the wrist and twisted. He wrenched the spray paint out of her grip, released her and bent down. He crossed out a sigil and broke the red line, then shoved the can at her and strode past. Charlie stood a moment stunned, getting bumped into and mumbled at angrily by passers-by.

In the alley Dean and Charlie found Sam sitting on the Leviathan's chest as it thrashed and snapped at him. Its severed legs lay on the pavement next to a nearby dumpster.

"I forgot how strong these things are," said Sam, smiling and out of breath.

"Sam, Dean's possessed," blurted Charlie.

"What makes you say that?" replied Sam casually, as he expertly zip-tied the Leviathan's elbows together behind its back.

"I'm not possessed. Look," Dean pulled his shirt collar aside revealing his intact pentacle sigil tattoo. "Remember what this is? It's still there."

Charlie looked at him accusingly and bewildered.

Sam wasn't willing to wait for her to figure out what she wanted to say. "Dean, you wanna give me a hand getting him into the trunk? Charlie, you can carry its legs."

* * *

The Leviathan woke, strapped to a chair in the middle of what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse. Sam was busy dissolving its legs in an aquarium of Borax solution twenty feet away while Charlie stood in front of the creature, holding a large knife that was doing nothing to make her feel any more confident. She was scared out of her wits, and it was all she could do to keep her hand from shaking.

"Why didn't you just kill me in the alley?" asked the Leviathan with a sad smile.

"Because…!" began Charlie, turning to Sam for an answer.

Sam shrugged oafishly and went back to stirring the slurry.

"Because then we wouldn't get to see the look on your face," boomed Dean calmly as he walked over, Blade in hand. He smiled and cocked his head with relish and interest.

Charlie's arms erupted in goosebumps. She pulled down her flannel sleeves, but it did nothing to disperse the chill that permeated her.

Dean continued. "You're not allowed to pick people off the street."

"Why on earth not?" asked the Leviathan. "It's not like I sneaked up on anyone under cover of darkness. Hell, I didn't even come at them from the side. I walked straight up to all my meals in broad daylight and no one even looked up. Everyone was so busy texting or whatever that they LET ME _bite off their heads_. And nobody else noticed because they were all on their phones too. Nobody looked up, nobody cared. So what's all this about not being 'allowed' to eat humans? Then why did you make it so damned easy?

Dick Roman had this huge ambitious plan to taint your food supply and make Americans slower, easier targets, but he needn't have bothered. You already did all the work for us. You're so complacent that you think you can walk through this dangerous world oblivious and come out unharmed. Do you have any idea how surrounded you are by threats and predators all day, everyday? If you're so stupid to think that you're not, I'm more than happy to play the part in order to illustrate that point to you. If it's that easy to eat you, then you deserve to get eaten. That's just Darwinism."

"So you're a big nature buff, are you? You're all up on evolution and natural selection?" asked Dean. "Then I guess you believe in survival of the fittest. In the world of predators…" He stabbed the creature in the abdomen and twisted, "…I'm better than you are."

"Come on, man! What are you doing?" objected Charlie.

Dean pulled out the Blade and stabbed him again, drinking in the Leviathan's pain. He didn't realize his eyes had turned black. To the monster, he sneered, "illustrating my point to you." When he'd had enough, he swiftly chopped off both its arms, then its head.

"That was quite the monologue," mused Charlie nervously, trying to lighten the mood. "If there's one thing I hate, it's an articulate villain." She looked at Dean, who was still riding the rush of murder. She saw his eyes and jumped. "Jeepers creepers!"

Dean flinched, abashed. He flicked his eyes back to hazel but it was too late.

"So…" she stammered, "…you just went full Dark Side, did you?"

"What can I say?" Dean tossed the Leviathan's head to Sam, who caught it and dunked it in the aquarium of Borax. Dean flicked his eyes back to black and grinned at the hacker. "They had cookies."


	3. Black and Yellow

**CONTAINS A SCENE OF GRISLY VIOLENCE - DISCRETION ADVISED**

"_Stop!" screamed Buttercup, her eyes and nose flowing freely. She'd shrieked her vocal chords to shreds multiple times, but they'd faithfully and painfully grown back each time. "Please!" She hiccuped and choked on her sobs._

"_Well, as long as you said please…" replied the demon in his silky voice. He turned away then swiftly whirled back and stabbed a corkscrew deep into her abdomen. Dean twisted the device's worm into her flesh, drinking in her horror with black eyes as stomach acid seeped out the newly hewn gash and into her tissue._

_Her face twisted into a silent grimace and she slumped, not bothering to articulate her agony even in crudest terms. She blubbered, tears burning as they drew salty tracks along her raw, ruined cheeks. "I want my mommy. I wanna go home."_

_Dean slapped her roughly in the face and grabbed her chin. He sniffed at her despair and snarled, "You _are_ home, Buttercup." He licked up a rolling tear._

The blonde woman's eyes snapped open. She had sweated through her sheets again. She rolled onto her stomach, buried her face in her damp pillow and started crying. What's a few more tears on already soaked bedclothes?

* * *

"They say you're only really, truly hunting when your prey is also a predator," mused Dean as he dismembered the dead Leviathan and threw the pieces across the room to Sam. "It must be hard when a monster comes to the crashing realization that they're not the biggest badass in the room. It's like a housecat that kills lots of birds, squirrels and lizards, and fancies itself a killer. Then gets eaten by a coyote. There's always something higher up on the food chain."

"What about you, Hemingway?" asked Charlie, carefully. "What's above you?"

Dean frowned and pointed to his brother, who was walking over pulling off his rubber gloves.

"Alright, I liquefied the thing, now you empty the tank."

"Why don't you just tip 'er over right here?" answered Dean. "The floor's got a drain in it."

"You can't just dump that crap wherever you like," scolded Charlie. "What do you think Borax and black sludge is going to do to the water table? Don't you care?"

"No," answered Sam.

"What are you, the EPA?" added Dean. "Why don't you deal with that swill if you're such an Earth mother? I gotta get goin' though; I'm supposed to meet up with Jim, Jack and José at the Spur."

Charlie gawked at Dean. "What?"

"It's Get-Blitzed-o'clock, get in the car. Let's go find a waitress to double-team. I'll wingman you." Dean slapped Charlie in the arm and headed for the door.

Charlie didn't move. "What the hell happened to you?"

"Ugh, I hate explaining things to people. I wish Chuck could have just kept writing those books. Sam, you wanna fill her in?"

"Dean's a demon, and my soul's off somewhere in a jar. We're the new Knights of Hell," answered Sam bluntly. "Shotgun!"

* * *

"Jesus, look at your paint job!" exclaimed the hacker when she clapped eyes on the Impala. Its sheen had turned matte in several places, the driver's side door sported a large impact dent and there were some small kisses of rust on the wheel well and front grille. "Were you in an accident?"

Dean looked at the damage to his door and smirked, remembering. "Nope, wasn't accidental at all." He opened the door and slid the seat forward, motioning for Charlie to get in. "This car's always been a piece of crap. I'm kind of sick of it, actually. Maybe I should trade it in for something that gets better mileage."

Charlie was speechless as the suffering Impala's engine started up with an angry grinding squeal. They drove off and she listened as the gears clunked clumsily as the demon driving changed gears. Neither brother made a move to turn on the radio, choosing instead to talk about a horror movie neither had ever seen, oblivious to how ill their repartee was making the woman in the backseat.

"Everyone wants to be sewn in the front, but only one person can," began Sam.

"Yeah, but you don't eat enough to sustain two other people. I've seen you in action and I'll be damned if I'm going to eat salad, let alone second-hand salad."

"Like I said, you just want to be at the front."

"Well no, nobody wants to be anywhere, but it can't be you and it can't be Castiel. He's an angel, I don't think angels even have anuses. What do you think, Charlie? Who do you think would be where in the Centipede?"

"I think it's time for some tunes," burbled the redhead with her throat full of bile. She fumbled in the box for a cassette and handed Sam the first thing she grabbed. "Here, flip this on."

_Commander Cody and his Lost Planet Airmen_. "We haven't heard the Good Commander in a while. Nice choice."

* * *

Crowley was sitting across from Doctor Abacad, watching her eat smelts at a Sicilian trattoria. He didn't eat and she didn't drink, but he could still drink while she ate. Relationships are about compromise, are they not?

"You're very kind for treating me," said the surgeon after swallowing. "Especially since I know there's someone else with whom you'd much rather be dining." She grimaced in a sympathetic smile.

"Nonsense. I could never take the Squirrel to a place like this." Crowley sighed. "Behrooz, do you think I'm the Winchesters' bitch?"

"No," she replied. "Your relationship is characterized by affection, not subservience." Abacad picked up her glass. "Why do you ask?"

Crowley broke eye contact, hemming and hawing. "No reason." Abacad looked at him pointedly and he could feel her eyes on him. The silence would loom until he answered her question in earnest. Being so transparent under the gaze of a human made him feel uncomfortable.

"That's what my mother said."

Abacad raised her eyebrows, most amused. She thought for a moment and put her glass to her lips. "Well, speaking truth to power is the traditional job of the court jester, isn't it?" She took a sip.

Crowley laughed, a husky bark that surprised himself. "Mee-ow." He looked in admiration at his date. "I'd love for you to meet her, if only to cut her down to size."

"I'm not sure that's wise. Let me find out what Sandeep thinks."

Crowley was taken aback. "I'd never have taken you for a woman who needs her husband's permission to do anything."

"You misunderstand. I don't have much experience courting men myself, but luckily Doctor Nahali has lots. He's always been a tremendous help navigating the Western dating codes."

Crowley watched Abacad put a forkful in her mouth, and marvelled at the motion of her face as she chewed. As he watched the flex of her jaw and the dangle of her earrings, he contemplated how much he liked hearing her accent. The roll of her Rs, the way she pronounced 'th' as T, she can make anything sound musical and soft. He smiled and thought to himself _exquisite creature_.

Just as the thought occurred to him, Abacad looked up, surprised. "Hm?" She swallowed her mouthful. "Did you say something?"

Crowley felt a pang of panic. Had he actually called her Collette out loud? He shook his head.

Abacad smiled. "On second thought, you do make an excellent point. For what do I need Sandeep's advice? I'd be happy to meet… Juanita?"

"Rowena," Crowley corrected, making an effort to unclench his chest. He strained to remember whether or not he had ever mentioned his mother's name.

* * *

All the staff at the Black Spur looked visibly alarmed and dismayed to see the return of the Winchesters. Sam excused himself and Charlie followed Dean insistently to the bar.

"You're going to tell me what happened right now!" she hissed.

Dean raised two fingers to the bartender, ignoring Charlie. "Can I get a triple-shot of Bourbon, neat?" This server was new. Dean took in her short blue hair and full-sleeves of tattooed cartoon characters, and spotted one of Sideshow Bob over a ribbon reading 'Die Bart Die'. Dean looked from her to Charlie and smiled. As the server poured his whisky, he added "and my friend here will have a single plum, floating in perfume, served in a man's hat."

Charlie and the bartender both erupted in cackles in unison, surprising themselves and each other. They made eye contact and shared a smile, while Dean winked at Charlie and took his drink to a booth.

Charlie cleared her throat and fumblingly asked what was on tap.

As Dean headed to the corner, Sam was just getting back from the "bathroom", breathing heavily, standing even taller than usual and looking like he wanted to kick the next person's ass. His irises were black.

Dean handed him a napkin, pointed to his lip and sat down. "Oops, I didn't order you anything to wash down… what was his name?"

"Didn't catch it," said Sam, wiping his lip. "I'm gonna get a beer."

He and Charlie crossed paths as she walked over to the booth, trying not to smile and looking flushed. She plunked down across from Dean.

"I know that look," he said with a satisfied grin. "You're trying to be pissed at me, but you can't. You both appreciate and resent the favor I did you."

"What I resent is your attempt to distract me."

"Didja get her number?"

"You just did it again!"

"You did, didn't you?"

Charlie blushed and ducked her head, contemplating her half-pint of wheat beer. She gave the orange slice a gentle poke.

Dean leaned back, smiled and raised his glass. "Attagirl." He took a swig.

"So you're a demon now? Just like that?" she asked sadly.

Dean flicked his eyes to black and gave her a non-verbal _whatcha gonna do?_

"This is insane. Michael's vessel is now a demon. So you've been working for Hell? Buying people's souls?"

"Why, have you got a price in mind for yours?"

Charlie leaned forward, putting her face in her hands, incredulous. "What happened to Sam's soul? Let's start there. Did he sell it?"

"I had it pulled out. There's a surgeon in Portland that does it. Come to think of it, I bet you two would really get along. Anyway, his animectomy has done him a world of good. Sam is a way better hunter without his soul."

"Is it safe at least? It's not in Lucifer's cage or anything?"

"Damn girl, how many times did you read the Supernatural books? Yeah, his soul is fine. Doctor Abacad has a really secure vault. It's weird, Sam is a better killer these days, a better liar… but sometimes it's like he's got Asperger's or something. He doesn't know how to avoid pissing people off, he's got no sense of humour and no imagination anymore. It's annoying."

"As opposed to Dean, who never had any manners to begin with," added Sam, joining Charlie on the bench seat opposite Dean. The diminutive redhead cringed, acutely aware that she was being boxed in. "You know, according to Crowley, animectomies cost something like 18 million bucks? How much of that do you think was just the doctor's I-Don't-Like-You tax?"

"Is this the same doctor that demon-ized you?" asked the hacker.

"No, I got the demon eyes from the Mark. Best thing that ever happened to me. I call this my self-improvement year. I knocked loads of things off my Bucket List."

"Like what?"

"Broke someone's nose in a mosh pit," began Dean, counting on his fingers. "Demolition derby, tried crack, created a supervillain, mile high club, triplets, librarian, pulled off the "I'm a snail" pickup line… it's been a great time. And if you share the bartender with me, that'll be another check."

"Did you say you created a supervillain?" asked Charlie.

"Who is it?" asked Sam, to the hacker's surprise.

"Remember that ex-jarhead that worked you over? The Inigo Montoya dude that was looking for me? Let's just say I gave him something to cry about."

Charlie's jaw dropped. "You're a monster."

Dean shrugged. "He started it."

Charlie started to hyperventilate, her voice getting higher. "Dean, you didn't have to do that – any of this! You never had to give up. You know you could always get all the freaky sex you want without… letting the Dark Passenger drive."

"Yeah, except not really. You remember what I was like before… 'saving people, hunting things'," Dean sneered and made a jack-off gesture. "I spent all my time on the road. The mission never left any time for threeways or… what are they called, Sammy? Cosplay chicks?"

Sam nodded. "Since we got out of the car and started really living, I'm in way better shape."

"There you go. Before, living all driven and… inhibited? It's not healthy."

"What about the family business?" sputtered Charlie.

"To hell with it," answered Dean, raising his glass to Sam.

"Business my ass," added Sam, clinking his beer with Dean's whisky. "It's not like we ever got paid or anything. What kind of a business model is that?"

Charlie's mind reeled and she slumped in her seat, disheartened.

Dean swallowed a mouthful of whisky and raised a finger, suddenly remembering something. "Know what would be awesome? You should join us and play for our team. You can be the third Knight of Hell."

Sam smiled. "Sir Charlie Bradbury. Dame? You could command the legion. It'd be like MoonDoor, but the power you'd have would be real."

Charlie replied quietly, gripping the fabric of her jacket with white knuckles. "I need to use the restroom. Sam, can I just get past you there?"

The younger Winchester scooched aside and stood up and Charlie took her leave. Dean remarked the speed at which she was moving, and the fact that her jacket was still in her hand.

He sighed and leaned forward bitterly. "Well, that was a 'no' if I ever heard one."

"It was?" asked Sam, looking in Charlie's direction.

Dean scoffed, shook his head and finished his whisky.

Two hours later, both brothers got a text message: NO. NO WAY IN HELL. NEVER IN A BAJILLION YEARS. NOT FOR A BAJILLION DOLLARS. GET YOUR HEAD RIGHT. –CHARLIE

* * *

As difficult as it is for Crowley to pick a date spot for Abacad and himself, selecting a location to accommodate his mother as well was downright impossible. He'd decided right off the bat that the witch should be made as uncomfortable as possible, and had narrowed it down to a hookah lounge or a bubble tea café. The former had won the coin toss.

"You must feel right at home at a place like this," mused Rowena as she blustered through the door, woefully late but making no apology. She breezily draped her shrug over the back of Abacad's chair and took a seat across from Crowley, leaving the seat across from the doctor vacant. "Does your family own this place?"

_Not off to a good start,_ thought Abacad as she considered explaining that her family was all back in Iran, mostly working as engineers and high-ranking civil servants. "No," came her barebones reply.

"Did you invite Trent to join us?" Crowley asked.

"What?" replied Rowena, before she remembered her lie. "Oh, no." She leaned toward Abacad. "So my son tells me you slice people's souls to pieces. How exciting! I've never met an Arab witch before. Tell me, how were you able to trick the Americans into thinking you're a medicine woman?"

Abacad didn't say anything. She could feel her face flushing in anger and couldn't help the flaring of her nostrils. Would it even be worth explaining to this racist ignoramus the cultural difference between Persians and Arabs, let alone the nature of her line of work? Does she even deserve the effort it would take to enlighten her?

Rowena's face suddenly fell and she pouted in abject sympathy. "What's the matter, bairn?" she asked in her thick Scottish brogue. "You're so quiet. Don't you speak English?"

"Funny you should ask," replied Abacad. "I was about to ask the same of you."

Crowley started coughing and turning red, his guffaws choking into his sinuses.

Abacad continued. "I am not some sort of soul butcher, I'm a medical doctor. Do I have to explain to you the difference between medicine and witchcraft? Are you a relic of the…dark ages?"

"Yes," murmured Crowley, eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Proud of it," sniffed Rowena. "You're so touchy. What's wrong with being a witch? Some of my best friends are witches. I'd be happy to tutor you in the magical arts, if you like. Hone your obvious natural talents."

"What is she talking about?" asked Crowley, bewildered.

"What _are_ you talking about?" repeated Abacad to Rowena, leaning forward. She would have been angry is the witch's smile hadn't been so benign.

"I could tell the moment I saw you," beamed Rowena. "I mean, his mother _is_ a famous witch, after all. It's only natural he should bring one home. It's all so... Freudian."

Abacad's face remained stony while Crowley's lit up with jolly, incredulous laughter. "You hear that, pet? 'Yer a wizard, Behrooz.'"

The doctor inhaled and blinked heavily and deliberately. She let her breath out slowly and pushed back in her chair. "I think that's just about enough nonsense for one evening." She started to get up and extended her hand to Rowena. "I'm glad to have met you, Juanita. You are among the rudest white people I have met yet. It is my professional opinion that your _rooh_ is constipated."

Rowena stood up and shook Abacad's hand. She smiled, not the slightest but ruffled. "Well in that case, perhaps your clinic could arrange some sort of colonic for me. An enema! Fergus, please have your people book me an appointment."

"I'm not your assistant, mother. Learn to Google."

* * *

_Vmmmmmp! Vmmmmmp!_ Sam's phone vibrated on the bedside table as he sat on the bed oiling Dean's handguns. He'd already taken apart and cleaned his own, but being rid of his soul meant he never slept. If he's got an extra eight hours of time everyday, may as well make himself useful.

He saw the caller ID and slid to answer. "What's up, Charlie?"

"Sam? Do you have a minute to talk?"

Sam smiled to himself and looked down the bore of Dean's Baretta. "I've got all the time in the world. What can I do for you?" He put his phone on Speaker.

"Are you alone? Where's Dean?"

"In the next room. He's probably asleep by now."

"Sam, are you on the toilet?" It had never occurred to her that the brothers might ever rent separate motel rooms.

"No. What do you want, Charlie?"

Charlie sighed heavily. Sam rolled his eyes. _Such drama. Why did she call if she didn't already know what she wanted to say?_

"Do you ever… do you ever miss your soul?"

Sam didn't miss a beat. "Nope. I'm just fine without it."

"Why did you go on the Leviathan hunt with Dean today?"

"Why not? I can help, I'm good at it… it's something to do."

"But why, though?"

"Why is there a why? Because. There's your answer." Sam put the pipe cleaner down onto a paper towel and began reassembling the gun.

"Here's what I'm getting at – you used to care about the people you and Dean saved. That's why you hunted at all, so the monster wouldn't kill anyone else."

"We killed monsters then, we kill monsters now. Nothing changed."

"No, _you _did, Sam. That's what I'm saying. Without your soul you don't care about anything, so how can you be a good hunter? Without your own motivation, breath is just a clock ticking."

"Is that a line from a movie?"

"Never mind where it's from!" snapped Charlie. "The point is that if you can't figure out why you're doing something, then you probably shouldn't do it. If Dean jumped off a cliff, would you do it too?"

"That's funny. If Dean jumped off a cliff, he'd be fine. He's a demon."

"Sam, you're not listening to me. You don't have a mission to believe in because you don't believe in anything. That's what you're missing. That's what you need."

Sam slid the magazine of Dean's gun in and out, listening to the sound of metal on metal. "Duly noted. Thanks for your concern. I gotta let you go."

"Alright dude, I've said my piece. At least think about what I said, will you?"

"Sure." Sam hung up and, to his credit, did spend a while mulling over Charlie's words.

_Equilibrium! That's where that line is from! _Sam smiled to himself. Sweet, that would have been bugging him until sunrise.

* * *

Dean felt pressure on the side of his bed and woke with a start. He reached under his pillow for his weapon, forgetting he'd given them all to his brother the night before. He saw them on the round motel table nearby but out of reach. He balled a fist and jerked upright, his eyes full of sleep.

"Great, you're awake," said Sam, unfazed. "I got us a case. Let's move out."

"Ugh," Dean rolled back onto his back and rubbed his eyes. "You are tactless, you know that?"

"Do you want me to leave so you can get dressed?"

"Yeah, _that's_ why I want you to leave. What's the emergency?" He rolled over and looked at the clock. "7:15? Kiss my ass. I'm not going anywhere." Dean rolled away from the nightstand and tucked himself back in.

"Since when do you sleep in? You used to yank me out of the sack at 6 every morning."

"That was the old me," burbled Dean into his pillow. "and he's dead and buried." He yawned loudly. "What are you hunting, anyway?"

"We're supposed to wipe out a nest of Banditos."

"Is that anything like a… I don't know what Banditos are."

"They're a Mexican biker gang. I could use your help."

Dean opened his eyes and sat up. "A biker gang of what? Vampires?"

"No, just bikers." Sam picked Dean's car keys off the bureau. "We still have some grenades, right?"

Dean was now wide awake. "Why are we 'supposed' to wipe out a gang of Banditos? This sounds like a gangland hit."

"It is. Some Hell's Angel bought it with his soul. Are you coming?"

"No, I'm not coming! Did Crowley put you up to this?"

"No, I called him."

Dean got out of bed. "What the hell, Sam? We don't work for Crowley."

"Why not?" asked Sam. "It pays pretty well. Besides, aren't we Hell's Knights?"

"That doesn't mean we work for Hell's Angels."

"Then who do we work for, Dean?" countered Sam. "This operation is going to be a lot harder without you. You're the indestructible one. You're also the one with the bloodlust." He pointed at Dean's naked right inner elbow. "You need this more than I do."

Dean put his left hand on his upper arm and turned the Mark of Cain away from his brother. "I can control myself."

"Terrific. Let's aim you at some worthy targets before you shrivel up and die. That's what happens if you don't kill, right?"

"Even if that was true, I don't need Crowley to feed me. I am not a T-Rex and this is not Jurassic Park."

"Uh, yeah it is. Hell is a theme park and you and I are the main attraction. You're a demon, so act like it. Demons kill."

Dean sneered in wordless indignation, looking like he wanted to slap some sense into his brother. "I don't want to slaughter a biker gang."

"It doesn't matter what you want. What does the Mark want?"

"What do _you_ want?"

"What I want is a good reason to get out of bed in the morning. I don't mind the legion thinking of me as their general."

"'Don't mind', you attention whore. Fine, you want to go and be Hell's hitman, be my guest. But count me out. And don't you touch my car."

Sam jangled the keys in the air indulgently, then dropped them back onto the dresser. He turned to leave, then stopped and turned back toward Dean. "Maybe I will take the Impala. It's not like you could stop me."

Dean's eyes turned black involuntarily. "Don't test me, Sam." He walked toward the First Blade. "I will kill you so hard, you'll wonder why…"

Before Dean could reach the Blade, Sam raised a hand and Dean was shoved violently sideways into the dresser. The corner caught Dean's side, breaking the skin and leaving a nasty (but already healing) bruise. Dean lunged again for his weapon but Sam made a fist and his insides wrenched painfully. He doubled over.

"You were saying?" Sam picked up the Blade and looked at it. "What a waste. All this power and all you want to do is play foosball all day. You make me sick." Sam put Dean's weapon down and picked up his car keys. "Call me when you feel like living up to your potential."

"You're gonna get killed without me," Dean spat through bloody teeth.

"Wanna bet?"

* * *

Doctor Abacad was sitting in her office, steaming tea on her desk, sifting through the seemingly inexhaustible well that was her inbox. Navigating Gmail with her enchanted glasses made spotting Spam, Malware, viruses and chain letters from her goofy cousins infinitely easier. It also gave her an early warning about which messages were from wannabe corporate sharks and trolling tabloid journalists.

She was halfway through reading a Psychology Today article a peer has sent her when she saw something unfamiliar flicker through the files of her computer. Abacad would hardly consider herself a programmer, but through her lenses she could see straight through her operating system, and the presence of an interloper was clear as day. She phoned reception.

"Vandaveon, do you see this?"

"I see lots of stuff, Doc," came Van's spacy reply. Abacad was pretty sure she could hear the sound of Bejewelled being played in the background. "Sorry," continued Van, hearing his boss' annoyance, "what are you looking at?"

"I think we have a virus in our network. Look at your computer with the glasses I gave you."

Several seconds went by before Vandaveon replied. "Oh yeah, there's someone hacking in. You want me to call IT?"

"You're supposed to be IT! Remember that raise we gave you in November?"

"Oh yeah. Okay, let me get right on it."

Abacad pinched the bridge of her nose. "Have any of our patient records been compromised? Is security still online?"

"Yeah. I mean no. I don't think so. Maybe. Hold up." Vandaveon made a series of playful grunts and triumphant sounds as he navigated the system. Abacad wasn't sure he hadn't gone back to his game. "Hah! There we go. I never kicked out a hacker before. How you like me now! Did that fix it, Doc?"

Abacad examined her computer again. The external presence appeared to be gone.

Then Transanimation's electricity failed and the building went dark.

"Crap. Sorry," said Van nervously. "I'm, like, 70% sure that wudn't my fault."

"So am I." Abacad hit the receiver, then the all-call button. "Siege protocol," she boomed through the building. "I repeat, all staff enact siege protocol now." She killed the feed, then turned it back on as an afterthought. "Don't anyone panic."

Abacad wiped her hands on her lab coat, suddenly feeling incredibly clammy. Her heart fluttered and she did her best to breathe slowly. _Okay, worst-case scenario… those two enormous twin brothers want something and, in their confusion, feel the need to get it by force._ Abacad relaxed slightly until she remembered that they brought firearms everywhere they went. _Are there any weapons on the premises?_ The only armed person on staff was Fred, Transanimation's large orderly, and, come to think of it, the employee that probably needed it the least.

Abacad gritted her teeth, wrote herself a reminder to overhaul her 'siege protocol' and left her office as quietly as she could.

From the OR she retrieved a vial of anaesthetic and carefully filled a syringe, which she then held at the ready. Abacad walked slowly through the darkened corridors of Transanimation, listening keenly for any movement. She ventured down the hall toward the soul vault.

"There he is!" said Freddy from somewhere near reception and Abacad jogged toward his voice. She spotted a hooded figure who stopped at the sight of her, turned away quickly and ran chest-first into Vandaveon.

Van bear-hugged the intruder who flailed at him and knocked his feet out from under him. The receptionist lost his balance and wiped out, taking the burglar down with him. The burglar landed on him, but Van quickly rolled over and sat down on his adversary's chest.

Vandaveon was grimacing and rubbing his elbow, illuminated from behind by Freddy's flashlight as Abacad walked over.

"Well done," said Abacad.

"Thanks. Do we have any zip-ties?" replied Van.

Freddy handed some to him, adding "nice takedown."

"Heh, you think I did that on purpose."

"Freddy, would you please restore the lights?" asked Abacad.

"Don't you think we should find his brother first?" the orderly replied.

Vandaveon pulled the ninja's hood back, revealing a mop of cherry red hair. "If she's a Winchester, she's adopted."

Abacad contemplated Charlie through her glasses. "That's not that far from the truth, is it? On your feet, little sister. We can speak in my office."

The lights of Transanimation blinked back to life.

* * *

Dean's temples throbbed, gently prodding him – one word over and over again. His jaw ached from clenching his teeth and the muscles in his forearms had become knotted and cramped from squeezing his fists.

One word. He could see it written in red behind his eyes, hear it repeated in his ears with every beat of his heart. Every bone, every nerve, every drop of blood and bile in his body were screaming it at him – KILL

Kill. Kill. Kill. Killkillkill.

Make something die.

Why not a pack of scumbag bikers?

_Why not Sam?_ That's what the Mark really wants, isn't it?

Dean wrapped his fingers around the handle of the Blade. It really was a deceptively elegant piece of weaponry. It's amazing how sharp it's remained after all these years; how, after hacking up stadiums of people over the centuries, it's never, ever broken. _You'd look even prettier wearing Sam than Lucifer would._

Dean placed the Blade in a drawer and paced the room, breathing deeply. Nobody was going to do anything until Sam got back with the car.

_Kill. Kill. Kill._ It made Dean want to bellow. _I can control myself._ Nothing dies until I decide. I don't work for Crowley, or the Blade, or the Mark, or Hell. And I don't work for Sam. Or dad. I need a drink.

_No! I just need some air._

Dean walked outside, trying to control his gait and breathing. He tried not to slam the door to his room and failed. Everything was making him angry: the empty parking spot where his baby was supposed to be, the clammy cool day, damp and cold but still somehow sunny – _is this the only type of freaking weather they make around here? _– this pencil-necked twerp walking towards him…

"Scuze me," murmered the guy as he jostled Dean in the shoulder.

Dean's feet came to a dead halt. "You're not excused." The guy kept walking. "I'm talking to you!" snapped Dean, walking toward Pencil Neck.

"I said I was sorry," said the guy, without stopping. "'Tsnot my fault you can't watch where you going."

Dean stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "I didn't bump into you, you bumped into me."

"To_may_to, to_matt_o," replied Pencil Neck, turning to leave.

Dean chortled, squeezing the guy's shoulder and keeping him locked in place. He shook his head, rolling those words through his mind. "To_may_to, to_matt_o…" Dean's smile vaporized and he punched Pencil Neck square in the nose, feeling the distinctive and satisfying crack of bone beneath his second knuckle.

Pencil Neck's legs crumpled and Dean smeared his open hand across his broken, gushing nose. He held his palm in front of his victim's face, giving him a good look at his own blood.

"Marinara sauce," quipped Dean before slamming his elbow into Pencil Neck's shoulder, flattening him. _The most fun I ever had with a pencil was snapping it in half,_ mused Dean as he stepped on this loser's stomach. He applied his weight slowly, relishing the intensifying grimace on Pencil Neck's face before stomping his gut and delivering a swift kick to his ribs.

Dean watched as Pencil Neck raised his trembling hands in the air holding them between himself and the demon, pleading for mercy, a futile attempt at protection.

Dean smirked, feeling no pity. _Don't you know what I am? Isn't it obvious?_ He cracked his knuckles.

Then Pencil Neck's phone rang.

It was a little, ten-note trill that pierced the air. The demon leaned forward and pulled the cellphone out of Pencil Neck's belt holster. _Ugh, a belt holster? I hate every freaking thing about you._

The ten notes repeated themselves insistently, forming a little verse with the first ten. The song was so familiar. Dean's brain itched and he looked at the phone, trying to place the tune. It was one of those stupid Baby Boomer songs.

It rang again and Dean listened hard. Ten little notes. His mind filled in a snippet of the lyrics: _You talk about it, talk about it, talk about it, talk about it…_

One more ring was all it took. Dean dropped the phone on Pencil Neck, who grunted as it hit him in the stomach.

_Funkytown. That song is called Funkytown._

Dean stumbled backward and wandered quickly back to his motel room.

That was the safe word. Remember? The bug-out word.

Funkytown means drop everything and go save Sam.

Because he'd do the same for you.

Except now he can't. He wouldn't. And neither can you.

Monsters don't save people. They're the ones from whom people get saved.

Dean looked around the room. It might have been the sleep still crusting his eyes, or the morning sun blaring through the window, but when he spotted his own face in the bathroom mirror in the next room, his black eyes appeared quite yellow.

His stomach heaved once and he ran to the bathroom to interrogate the mirror. He gripped its edges and glared at himself. His eyes were hazel. He flicked on the demon and watched them blink to black. Back to hazel. Back to black. Dean breathed. Hazel. Black. Hazel. Black.

Yellow.

Hazel!

Dean dry heaved again and sat down quickly, worried he was going to fall over. His mind was screaming at him. It seemed like ages since he'd ever felt an inkling of anything like conscience; now it was deafening. _Monsters don't save people. And nobody saves monsters._

Sam doesn't have your back, and why should he? You don't have his. You were going to let that marine go ahead and tear him a new bellybutton. That's how much you've got his back. You had his soul ripped out and now he'd easily feed you to a psycho just the same.

All you ever had in this world was your smartass kid brother. When you didn't have two dimes to rub together, a friend in the world, a pot to piss in, what was the one and only thing you could always say you had?

Sam's back.

Dean contemplated the magnitude of the mess he'd made. _What I did to Inigo Montoya – Cole – is exactly what Azazel did to dad._

And who in their right mind would want John Winchester as their enemy?

_I don't want yellow eyes. I can fix this. I can fix everything. I'll start with Sam._

* * *

**POP CULTURE CHEAT SHEET**

"Jim, Jack and Jose" are brands of Bourbon, Scotch and tequila, respectively.

Sam and Dean are discussing the correct placement of them and Castiel if they were to be attached together, Human Centipede-style.

"The single plum, floating in perfume..." joke is a Simpsons reference: it was requested at Moe's by Barney's Yoko Ono-type artist girlfriend.

"Letting the Dark Passenger drive" comes from Dexter, referring to the reptilian bloodlust that lives in his head. Charlie's obviously a fan of the books.

"Yer a wizard, Behrooz' is Crowley's bastardization of Hagrid's line to Harry Potter in Sorcerer's Stone.


	4. Enter Three Witches

_They say that when you seek revenge, be sure to dig two graves._

_ They underestimate me. - A Softer World_

* * *

Click, clak-clak, fnak, click.

"Not bad. Again."

Lucas Trenton had come to learn that there was no arguing, complaining against his father's terms. Cole decided when they could stop taking apart their firearms and putting them back together. This was a drill and it would not stop until his father said so. To whine is to invite him to extend it.

In less than three seconds, Luke had the magazine, the bore, the barrel sleeve and the guide rod on the motel bed, and it took him another five seconds to reassemble the gun. He pressed the trigger, heard it click, reset it, then frowned at his father, looking him hard in the eye.

"What's more important than doin' it fast is doin' it right," said Cole, pointing to his son's hand. "How do you know you didn't get lint in the recoil spring when you put it down on the bedspread?"

Luke was tired and bitter. "I put the spring on my knee. That's the only thing that can get lint in it."

"Where are your live rounds?"

"Somewhere out of reach. Behind me on the headboard."

"Do you ever lube the clip?"

"Sir, no sir. And it's called a magazine."

Cole nodded and looked at his son. It seemed to him like the boy had aged fifteen years in three months. Pain will do that to you, but he'd rather have a hardened crabapple for a son than a soft oblivious victim, just waiting to get eaten by evil.

Lucas stared at his father, awaiting his next order.

"Alright boy. Three more times then you can watch Kimmel and go to bed. You brushed your teeth; did you floss?" Luke nodded. "Good boy." Cole walked to the bathroom.

The boy swiftly and deftly ran through the dissembly-reassembly drill with his pistol and was finished in less than thirty seconds. "If we're supposed to meet Walt tomorrow, I don't have to stay up for Kimmel."

"It's up to you. We're not meeting him at the diner until noon. I get the impression he's not a real morning person."

Luke pulled the magazine out of the gun, put it in the box of live ammunition and put one in the drawer of the nightstand and another in the bureau.

Cole brushed his teeth and watched Luke do the same with the other handguns, then climb into bed. He turned on the TV and let exhaustion overtake him. Cole watched from the bathroom as his son smiled sleepily at a pre-recorded skit and his eyelids grew heavy. It wasn't even five minutes before Luke decided that he wouldn't be able to stay awake for the show. He turned it off.

Cole spat into the sink, rinsed and reviewed the message he'd taken from Walt last time they'd spoken on the phone.

Walter was an undisciplined, battle-scarred, sad alcoholic, but he was the hunter who'd come closer than anyone else to eliminating the Winchester brothers. He was willing to share what he knew with the marine in exchange for some help on his current hunt.

Cole had been able to glean very little of use from his conversation with Walter; he was on the trail of some sort of boogeymonster that he'd tracked to the woods outside of Conifer, Colorado. Walter had alternatively referred to it as a were-beast of some sort, and as a 7-foot boar (or had he said bear?), but it was clear that he believed it to be bloodthirsty and a veritable threat to the peasants. Cole had actually been able to dig up some recent news reports of an animal attack, so he was willing to humour an old crackpot on a ridiculous crusade if it helped him get closer to the demon who tore his family apart.

Cole walked to Luke's side of the bed and turned off the lamp. _I wish I could tell you better things about the world, kid,_ thought Cole as he looked at his son. _As you grow up, you're supposed to find out that the world is a safer, less magical place. Santa and the Tooth Fairy aren't real, but neither are Baba Yaga, the ankle-grabber or the closet monster. Magic and monsters aren't supposed to be real. I'm so sorry, boy._

"Goodnight, Luke. I love you."

The boy rolled silently onto his side and pulled the blanket tight.

* * *

"I don't suppose it occurred to you, at any point, to simply phone my clinic and ask for what you want?" The doctor and the hacker walked into her office and Abacad cut the zip tie with a pair of scissors.

"Thanks," said Charlie, rubbing her wrist.

"Well, it was either that, or you spend the next ten minutes sawing away at them with your concealed knife. I do so want your full attention. Let me take these off," said Abacad, smiling at Charlie's astonishment and removing her third eye specs, "that way I'll stop invading your privacy."

"That's my job, after all," countered Charlie uneasily. "Hacker!" she added, raising her hand.

"Right. What brings you here?"

"Why do you have Sam Winchester's soul in a jar?"

"Ah, you came to liberate it, did you? Tell me, if you had been successful in your heist, what would you have done with it? Do you know how to transplant a _rooh_? Heaven forbid you were to sew it in back-to-front."

"What if I said I came to make sure it's okay? You had no right to remove it."

Abacad's shoulder slumped and she broke eye contact. "There I agree with you. Rest assured it was the lesser of two evils."

Charlie frowned. "Choosing the lesser of two evils is still choosing evil. If it had been Sam or Dean, they'd have found a way to dodge them both."

"Have you met Dean lately? I don't think his technique has worked out to well. For him or his brother."

"I know. That's exactly why I'm here. I have to fix Sam."

"That's not your job."

"Damn right. It's your job."

Abacad sighed. "No it isn't. Isn't not my place. It isn't anyone's job to fix anyone else. Not if they don't want to be fixed."

Charlie raised her eyebrows and chortled. "I'm sorry, what? Isn't that… exactly what you do here? You're the pioneer at the forefront of soul-hacking technology."

"What I do is develop therapeutic procedures. I help people change and become who – or what - they wish to be."

"Except Sam."

"Yes, except him. He would not have undergone the animectomy if he'd been in his right mind. He'd never have signed the contract."

"A contract? Really?" blurted Charlie. "_That's_ what's keeping you from re-ensouling him? Who cares about a damned contract? Just tear the stupid thing up."

The doctor sat up straight and leaned forward. "You really don't understand. Your ignorance surprises me." Before Charlie could object, Abacad continued.

"People like Sam or Dean… Bellamy Finch… really, anyone who would put their soul in my vault. People like Mister Crowley cannot understand morality, cannot tell right from wrong. All they understand is legal and illegal. Expensive and…" Abacad searched for the word and added air quotes when she found it. "'Cost effective'. The only way to make them behave decently is to make it expensive for them do to otherwise. You have to legally tie their hands. That's why a contract – my contracts – are so important. They are what safely hobble the nasty intentions of my clients.

I have no illusions about the potential damage I can cause with my therapy. My legal team – Miss Ahlquist in particular – are my insurance, the safety net that minimizes this harm. I don't collect souls to do anything nefarious with them; my vault exists to prevent anyone _else_ doing anything nefarious with them."

"Anything nefarious?" asked Charlie. "Like what?"

"Use your imagination." She watched Charlie's face flicker between shock and revulsion before adding, "my custody of the _rooh_ started when one client retrieved his and had it destroyed."

The hacker's jaw dropped. "Oh my god. Are you serious?"

Abacad nodded. "Ahlquist thinks he might have done it to avoid punishment in the afterlife. I would have thought that belief in Hell leaves a person when their soul does, but I was wrong."

"What exactly do you remove from a person when you pull out their soul?"

"Good heavens. Many, many things," huffed Abacad. "Empathy, creativity, guilt, sexuality… mostly emotions. The better question would be whether or not the patient considers such properties a wealth they'd be sorry to lose."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, Sam doesn't miss his soul."

"No, he wouldn't," replied Abacad, her eyes getting wet. "They never do."

* * *

As it turns out, the Winchesters were indeed all out of grenades, having used the last of their stock during the Pacoima incident. But Sam Winchester is nothing if not resourceful and between the items in the trunk (among them an orange municipal worker costume) and the cursed objects in his father's storage locker (a drive that only took him two hours out of his way), he built an extremely powerful thought bomb that thoroughly fried the innards of everyone inside the Banditos' safehouse.

The only survivor was a portly member who happened to have been on the back porch nursing a cigar at the time of the detonation. He was easily dispatched with a knife to the kidney.

It didn't occur to Sam to wonder if there was anyone besides his targets on the premises when his weapon went off; all the targets were present, and that was all that mattered. He texted his employer to let him know the task was complete.

Crowley met Sam fifteen minutes later in the parking lot of a government blood services building with a brown paper bag and a hostage. He looked around, surprised and dismayed to see the younger Winchester alone.

"Where's Dean?"

"Cain is Abel's keeper, not the other way around," replied Sam pulling the bag out of Crowley's grip. "Is it all here?"

"Yep. I would have cut you a check, but I couldn't be sure you even have a bank account."

"I have a bank account." Sam looked at the hostage: a middle-aged bearded man – _kinda looks like Bobby, come to think of it_ – with a leather strap over his mouth and some old-fashioned shackles on his wrists. Sam could almost smell his blood through his meatsuit's skin.

"You won't eat him here, will you?" said Crowley, observing Sam's naked hunger. He glanced around the well-lit parking lot, overlooked by visible surveillance cameras. "It would be in poor taste."

Sam nodded assent and stuffed the demon into the Impala's backseat. "Have you got another job for me?"

"So soon?" countered Crowley.

"Sure. Want me to capture any more Alphas? I enjoy a challenge."

Crowley smiled and turned his shoulder to Sam. He wagged a finger. "You're trying to find work for your idle hands."

"Isn't that what you're for? I'm sure Hell can find use for a Knight. Call it a show of strong leadership."

"I'm not so small that I need to assert my dominance constantly," sniffed Crowley. "Such a display of power would be…"

"Vulgar?" offered Sam with amusement. "That's interesting. I would have thought your Hell would be much more Draconian than this. It's not like you to spare the rod. Maybe you _are_ losing your edge."

Crowley cringed and puzzled Sam. _This is not the Winchester I'm used to getting lip from. It doesn't suit him._ "Where _is_ Dean?" he asked again.

"If I had to guess? At the Black Spur, drinking something, fighting something or balls-deep in something. He's hardly the most valuable player in your roster these days. Put me in, coach."

The King of the Inferno pondered this a moment. There were never many things that the Legion found reliably frightening, but the legendary Winchester brothers could always give them pause. Having turned the Winchesters from hunters to agents had given Crowley a huge surge of political capital in the pit. He imagined their value as a threat would be even more considerable now that the younger sibling is a de-facto demon-eating vampire.

"Perhaps we can reach an accord," began Crowley, trying to read Sam's reactions. _The boy is inscrutable._ "You're thirsty for demon juice and I have disloyal underlings I'd like to see eaten. Perhaps we can help each other." He looked at the classic Chevy, whose best days were clearly behind it. "Give this back to Dean. It's not yours, and I'll not have you faking me out every time you drive over."

"Faking you out?" asked Sam.

"Tell you what. As a man in my employ, I'll furnish you with a company car. One with satellite radio."

"Deal." Sam shook his hand, still wondering what Crowley meant. He never missed his soul, except for the times when he could tell that something intuitive was going over his head. He hated the sense that he was missing something.

* * *

Charlie watched the doctor's adam's apple bounce. Abacad cleared her throat. "I'm sorry…"

"This is a real sore spot for you," said Charlie, staring at Abacad. It wasn't a question.

A tear fell from the surgeon's eye. "What I did to that boy…" she breathed to herself before wiping her cheek. "I once remove the soul of a gay man because he couldn't pray himself straight. He sought my services because he would rather be rid of his sexuality altogether than embrace it and be happy."

Charlie looked at Abacad as is the doctor had just spat at her. "How could you…"

"To prevent his suicide," interrupted Abacad gently, motioning to the glasses around her neck. "I could see that he would have done something worse to himself. Happiness for him had become impossible, so what I gave to him was the best he could hope for." She fixed her gaze on Charlie. "The work I do is quite handsomely lucrative, but it's incredibly burdensome. I remove people's ability to feel joy and love at their request. As hard as it is to do when they ask…" Abacad trailed off.

"I get it. Nobody goes to medical school so they can grow up and soul-rape people."

Abacad bristled at Charlie's choice of words. "I regret operating on Mister Winchester, but I did take precautions to make the best of a bad situation. It was all I could do."

"You do that a hell of a lot, don't you?" needled Charlie. "How much of your job would you say is devoted to moral relativism? What percentage of your time do you spend deciding which of two evils is worse?"

"At least eighty-five percent."

"Mizz Abacad, do you enjoy your work?"

There came from down the hall the cheerful voice of a woman, whose Scottish lilt grew louder as she approached. "If I failed to do all the things insignificant receptionists told me not to do, I'd – OOMPH!" Rowena's forehead made a loud and hollow 'thunk' sound as she walked face-first into the warding protecting Abacad's office. Her nose crumpled as she connected with a veritable force field.

The doctor, whose chair faced the door, started laughing.

Charlie turned around and beheld another diminutive redhead in a very conservative blue dress, looking most put-out.

"You know, I was once chased out of Bavaria by peasants with pitchforks," began the witch indignantly, "and I still didn't feel as unwelcome as I do right now. Knock-knock," she added, rapping her knuckle against a spot in midair. "I do have an appointment."

Charlie walked over and waved her arm through the wall of warding that had stopped Rowena. The witch pointed to the floor, which was inlaid with patterned rings that radiated into the room around the doorway.

The hacker recognized some Enochian and Sumerian, and grinned at the novelty. "Angels can get furthest into the room, and demons get stopped at the door. You can tell what type of threat someone poses by which ring stops them."

"This is your first day here, innit?" Rowena leaned past Charlie and called to Abacad. "Have you a divination dungeon of some sort, or would you prefer to examine me here in the doorway?"

"Oh man, can I sit in on this?" asked Charlie excitedly.

"Of course not!" scolded Abacad. "What a violation of privacy."

"Don't be silly, Behrooz," countered Rowena. "I can't think of a better learning opportunity. Besides, I've just made a fool of m'self." She crossed her arms and leaned against the wall of anti-witch warding. "Why have the indignities stop there?"

* * *

The marine and his son were standing on the sidewalk outside The Buzzing Sign when Walter arrived.

"Howdy. You ready to move out?" asked Cole.

"You guys stand so straight, both of you," said Walt with a cough. "You don't want to have breakfast first?"

"It's after twelve," said Luke.

"We've eaten," interjected Cole, opening the diner door. "But we'll wait if you haven't. Hunting on an empty stomach must be that much harder."

As the group was waiting for Walter's pancakes to arrive, the hunter sipped his coffee and glanced nervously from Cole to Luke and back. "Sorry," he began, "I didn't realize you'd already be raring to go. You said you were in the military?"

"Yessir, Marine Corps, once and always. Anymore I can't stay in bed past seven, otherwise I feel like a bona fide lazybones."

Walt nodded and tried to parse the look of weariness on Lucas' face. The waitress arrived with his breakfast, set it down in front of him and he gave her a nod of thanks and picked up his cutlery. "Is this your son? Why is he here?" He cut into his pancakes.

Luke stiffened and leaned on the table. _Good question._

Cole answered. "He's a crack shot, he's got good eyes and any operation that's good with two men works better with three."

"I can be the scout, the sweep or the trigger man," added Luke blankly. "Or the bait."

Walt recoiled and swallowed his big mouthful of fried dough in one gulp. "Were you planning on needing bait here, friend?"

"I might if I knew what we was huntin'," countered Cole. "I couldn't make heads or tails of what you sent my way. We're trying to put a were-bear in the ground? I read one guy's story; how do we know this ain't just a real tall fella in a hog mask?"

Walter shook his head. "It's not a pig and it's not a bear. It's both, but it walks like a man. Has the smarts of one too. I think what we're dealing with is a chimaira."

"Alls I know is that's a metal band," replied Cole.

Walter stuffed a slice of shortstack into his mouth, put down his cutlery and dug through his rucksack.

Luke put his elbow on the table and looked out the window. Before his dad had pulled him out of school, he'd done some units on ancient mythology. Hercules, the Hydra, Perseus, the Minotaur, the Gorgons…

"A chimaira is, like, a crazy animal mashup monster, right?" said Luke as Walt passed a folder to Cole. "Like a gryphon or a manticore?"

Cole opened the folder and peered at its contents.

Walt raised his eyebrows, impressed. "That's right, actually. It has also appeared in Scandinavia as well. From what I understand, they hybridize local species usually predators. In Greece, it's a lion or whatever, in Spain there'd be some bull in there, and now we're dealing with some sort of man/bear/pig."

"Well, if you ask me, that sounds like a big ol' sack of you-know-what," said Cole, flipping through the documents.

"You know, I didn't exactly pull those out of my ass," replied Walt with no little irritation.

"Dad, mom got kidnapped by a guy with black eyes. Is this really so hard to believe?"

"A black eyed man? You mean a demon?" asked Walt. Cole nodded. "That's not nothin'. I'm impressed you fought one and lived."

Cole smirked and held up two fingers. "Twice."

"Damn. Still, that's rough about your wife. I'm sorry as hell. Hopefully making some other inhuman bastard pay will make you feel better."

Luke could almost hear his father grit his teeth.

"Speaking of which," said Cole, biting down his anger. He looked straight at Walt. "Winchester. What do you know?"

"They're good hunters, born and bred. Some of the best really, but they have been known to monkey-wrench things pretty severely, on occasion. They don't even do it on purpose. They can't help it. The two of them started Armageddon, and Sam was supposed to lead the Devil's army in the final battle. As in, _the_ final battle. I tried like hell to kill him, and I really thought that…"

"Never mind Sam. I want to know where Deano is."

"There will be plenty of time for all that over post-hunt drinks." Walt looked at Luke. "Or in his case, milkshakes or whatever. Are you totally sure you want to bring him, Trenton? A hunt is no place for a boy. It's really friggin' dangerous."

"He can hold his own," replied Cole, slapping Luke gently on the shoulder. "If we're getting' into this business, we're gonna do it as a family."

Walter winced involuntarily at Cole's choice of words. His own daddy had gotten shot by a bail bondsman, so who was he to tell another man how to raise his son? He watched the marine read his briefing as he polished off his pancakes.

"So we gotta incinerate this thing once it's dead?" asked Cole. "Why?"

"Tradition, mostly," answered Walt. "In the words of Van Helsing, it never hurts to be thorough. Although in this case, we do have to destroy its blood so its disease can't mash any more chimairas together."

"Good enough for me. Let's make tracks," said Cole getting up.

Luke followed suit, but felt the need to interject. "Van Helsing said that? In the Dracula book?"

Walter chuckled and dropped some bills. "Ya caught me. Kid, you're alright. I used to know a guy that had that same necklace."

As Walter drove his truck down the road, leading the Trenton GTO deeper and deeper into the coniferous Colorado forest, he strained and strained to place Lucas' pendant. It was so familiar. _Whose was it? Rufus? Old Man Campbell? Was that Tamara's hood ornament? Screw it. It'll come to you eventually._

* * *

Dean didn't relish the idea of another interdimensional commute, so he was pleased to find out that Hell had legal offices on Earth as well as in Hell. Whatever he was expecting, it certainly wasn't an airy, open-concept corporate building in Silicon Valley.

All staff mobilized as soon as word of the black Impala's arrival got around. Wolfram and Hart's Palo Alto office greeted the Knight immediately at the door with an assistant.

"Good afternoon, Mister Winchester," said a burly bald man in a suit over whom Dean towered. He extended his hand. "You may call me Dolph. How can we be of service today?"

Dean grabbed his hand and squeezed. He decided to cut right to the chase. "I need a copy of Sam's animectomy contract and someone to make sense of it for me."

The pitying smile on baldy's face when Dean admitted his ignorance made him want to punch his teeth down his ugly neck until they lodged in the knot of his iridescent blue tie, but Dean stayed his hand, clenching and unclenching his fist.

"Right away, sir," replied Dolph with a stiff little Japanese bow.

_What a golden opportunity to headbutt this ass-hat,_ thought Dean. "Awesome," he grunted in reply.

* * *

In the examination room, Charlie watched Abacad peer at Rowena's torso through her glasses. Rowena squirmed, shifting her weight on the table as the clean white paper crinkled under her rear end. It was clear that she'd never been in an environment as clinical as this before.

"This is intriguing. Yours is the oldest soul I've ever examined," said Abacad, sitting on a stool and holding Rowena's right shoulder with her left hand. "It shares many qualities with my other patients."

"Don't tell me," schmoozed the witch, "I look good for my age."

Charlie smiled and Abacad replied without irony, "you've had work done."

"Did you want to get your soul removed too?" asked Charlie.

"Never say never," replied Rowena. "I wanted to get to the bottom of this 'soul constipation' I allegedly suffer from."

Charlie looked at Abacad in confused repugnance.

Abacad squinted and waved her hand in the air, struggling to articulate herself in English. "Your _rooh_ is blocked. Your emotions have been artificially repressed. I have seen repression in patients before, but yours is so severe that it limits your natural flow. You are knotted… choked off, perhaps?"

The hacker leaned forward, hanging on every word. "What does it look like?"

"A soul such as mine defies the kind of description…" began Rowena.

"A wet blue bath towel in a heap," interrupted Abacad definitively.

"Can you fix it?" asked Charlie.

"That's not why I'm here," snapped Rowena.

"That would depend on the nature of the blockage." She peered again at Rowena, then recoiled with a gasp, looking at the witch's face. "You… you did this to yourself. You blocked yourself." She went back to her breastplate, tracing her fingers along invisible lines. "Your sympathy, your ability to imagine and love… it's all jammed." Abacad took her glasses off her face and sat up. "Are you hiding from yourself? Why would you do such a thing?"

Rowena didn't answer; she just raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips in a smug, self-satisfied smirk.

"Can I try on your glasses?" asked Charlie, staring at Rowena.

Abacad inhaled but before she could form her objection, Rowena lifted the third eye specs off from around the doctor's neck and handed them to the hacker. Abacad rankled.

Charlie passed them in front of her eyes and jumped. She blinked and looked through them carefully, amazed by the manic, technicolour blacklight show before her. She stared into Rowena for several seconds in silence, then muttered "unsex me here, fill me with direst cruelty". She raised her eyebrows, intimidated but unabashedly impressed. "Holy crap, you're like Lady freaking MacBeth."

Rowena's mouth fell agape and she placed a hand to her heart as though she'd just been handed a bouquet of roses. "After your internship here, would you like to apprentice under me?"

"She doesn't work here," chimed in Abacad.

"It doesn't matter if you could unblock her or not," marvelled Charlie, looking once again at Rowena's chest, "she did this to herself. She wants to be 'constipated'."

"I prefer to think of it as 'unencumbered by sentimentality'."

Charlie turned to Abacad who swiftly stood up and sidestepped her gaze. She took her glasses carefully off Charlie's face and sat back down.

"But you totally could, couldn't you?" gushed the hacker, unperturbed. "You could untie the knots inside her and… make her flow the right way, right?"

Rowena smirked. "Do you list 'soul enemas' on your website?"

Abacad sat back in her chair and looked at them both. "Yes Rowena, that is a service we provide here. I could fix you, but fixing you wouldn't fix you."

"Pardon?" asked Rowena.

"Huh?" said Charlie at the same time.

"I know what a healthy _rooh_ is supposed to look like," answered Abacad, "but if you know that that isn't what you want, who am I to impose that upon you? Like I told you, it's nobody's job to fix anyone else, I am a doctor, and I respect the wills of my patients. The consequences of a person's blundering are their own punishment. You can't save someone from themselves. To try is a fool's errand."

"…but!…" began Charlie, trying to form an objection.

"Surely you jest!" spat Rowena. "If someone's broken and it's within your power to fix them, why on earth would you hesitate? Especially if you know better than them. Good lord, I've used magic to manipulate and transform thousands of people over the centuries. I consider it my duty to intervene in the lives of powerless ignorami for the greater good."

"If I were to bend you to my will, you would become less yourself," countered Abacad. "I don't wish to destroy who you are in order to create who I think you should be."

"I think it's precious that you think you could," cooed Rowena.

"You then!" Abacad whirled on Charlie, jabbing the air with her glasses to punctuate her point. "If I could, for the sake of conversation alter you and make you attracted to men rather than women, would that make you happy? You could embody the status quo, live the way everyone else does, would you consider yourself fixed?"

Charlie shrunk away from Abacad, horrified, offended and somewhat frightened. "No?"

"No! Exactly," continued the doctor. "I can't fix you because you're not broken. Nor would I dream of trying to fix my husband or this one's horrible psychic clogging. I have had quite enough of imperialism. I don't wish to become another tyrant with power."

"Is that the difference between witches and doctors?" mused Rowena. "I change people as I see fit, but you change people as they see fit. You've placed the limits of your talents in the hands of idiots." She sighed and shook her head sadly. "What a shame. You have the capacity for such great things."

"You wanted to know if I enjoy my work, young lady?" snapped Abacad. "I do and I don't. I am a leader in my field, unique in my skills, known and respected for my accomplishments. I am very proud of my career, but every time I feel tempted to indulge my ego I remember that I am the mere instrument of my patients' wills. My hands and expertise work in their service, never vice versa. I am often crushed by my obligation, but if it weren't me doing this work, it might be someone like her." She pointed at the witch.

"Don't you look down your nose at me…" began Rowena.

"Doc," interrupted Charlie, "how come you were so quick to pull your glasses off me? You looked at me through them; am I not allowed to examine you?"

"By my score, you're the only one here that has yet to get the Spanish Inquisition," added the witch.

"What does your soul – _your _rue – look like?" prodded Charlie.

Abacad looked at her glasses and put them into her pocket. "I don't know. I've never had the courage to look."

Rowena snorted. "And you have the nerve to say that I'm hiding from myself? You know, Fergus speaks so highly of you, he makes it sound like the very sun shines out your arse. He must not know what a blasted coward you are."

Abacad straightened in her chair and the muscles in her jaw and temple twitched. Charlie had never seen anyone look so imperious. _I'm so glad she's not mad at ME._

"Rowena," began the surgeon slowly, "it is my professional opinion that your soul is severely screwed. The damage you have caused yourself could be corrected with specialized surgery, or with a regimen of spiritual chiropractics, both of which are available through this clinic. But since it's clear enough that you're happy with your _rooh_ in the sorry shape it's in, there's nothing I can do to help you. On a personal note though, I'd like to express profound pity and sadness for the child reared under your care. You had a choice and he did not. It's no wonder Fergus became what he is, given the state of you."

"Who is Fergus?" asked Charlie. "Is that your boyfriend, or something?"

"Another excellent question. You're a very bright wee lass, hen." Rowena turned back to Abacad. "What, exactly, is my son to you?"

"Ooh, I don't want to get into the middle of this," said Charlie as she made a face and conspicuously crept toward the door. "So I think I'm just gonna…"

"Not to worry, this appointment is at an end. Ms. Crowley, please see Vandaveon in reception about billing. I do wonder, though, why you booked an appointment at all. You leave now having learned anything you didn't know before, and considerably poorer."

"On the contr'y," countered the witch merrily, getting to her feet and deliberately smoothing down her dress. "I found this visit quite educational. Thank you for your time, sister." As she opened the door next to Charlie, she opened her mouth to say something to the hacker, but stopped herself. Almost as an afterthought, she piped up, "now you, I quite like. See you around." She waggled her fingers goodbye to Charlie and left.

Abacad looked at the wall clock. "I'm afraid you'll have to be along as well. I have a mountain of documents to see to and time is getting short. I would however love to speak with you again on a professional matter."

Charlie was perplexed. "What about?"

"You seemed familiar with the warding I'd installed. I was hoping you had some ideas for further upgrades. I need to impede beings without souls."

"You're worried about Sam Winchester."

"Among others, but I believe he's the biggest immediate threat."

The hacker exhaled hard, daunted by the proposition. "Warding isn't really my forte. Looks like whoever did this was pretty thorough. Why not just rehire them?"

"Because he's now the being I'm trying to keep out. Miss Bradbury, I'd be happy to provide you with compensation for your services. Would your current employer be willing to spare you?"

Charlie chuckled. "Heh, 'current employer', right. Yeah, okay. The only thing I want in return is to see Sam's soul. Just see it. Just to make sure it's okay."

Abacad pursed her lips, frowned and nodded pensively. "Please come back next Wednesday morning at 7am sharp, before the clinic opens. And please bring with you all the equipment you brought with you today."

* * *

The elder Winchester was led to an opulent in-house law library where yet another slithering black suit met him with a handshake and a can-do attitude. He introduced himself but Dean didn't bother to remember his name.

"Here we are," began the suit whose name doesn't matter. "This is your brother's contract. What would you like to know?"

"How do we break it?"

"I'm sorry, 'break it'?"

"Yeah, how do we get Sam out of it? I want his soul out of the vault and back in his body."

The peon flipped through the document. "That doesn't appear to be an option. It says here that his soul is not leaving Transanimation for ten years."

"Find a way around that," commanded Dean.

"There isn't one," replied the peon incredulously. "Damn, this thing is downright impenetrable. Who wrote this?" He flipped it closed and looked at the cover. "Who's Tanya Ahlquist? She should be one of ours."

"Come on, kid!" barked Dean. "Use your head! There's always a way around this type of crap. You said his soul has to stay in the vault? What it something should happen to the vault? What if an earthquake or something knocked out a wall?"

The lawyer shook his head. "It would have to be an earthquake. Any tampering on Hell's part would just rope us into covering the damages to the building and finding another storage unit we couldn't touch. There's nothing we could do to compromise the vault."

Dean smiled. "No, there's nothing _you_ could do to mess up the vault. You guys are on the payroll; I'm not. I don't work for Hell, so I can firebomb the place all I want." He leaned forward and peered at the contract. "So if the vault gets napalmed, who gets Sam's soul?"

"Sam does."

"Crap! Well, we'll just burn that bridge when we get to it. Hey nosepick, do you know how to make a pipe bomb?"

The suit rolled his eyes. "Even if I did, I can't help, remember?"

"Oh right." Dean frowned. "Hey, what's the direct line to Hell's IT?"

"I can find out. Why?"

"There's a skinny nerd named Sully in tech support. He looks like the type of kid who spent high school reading the Anarchist's Cookbook."

The peon sneered. "Ugh, are you talking about that Ichabod Crane-looking guy who needed a haircut? With the Monty Python t-shirts and the flannel?"

"That's him. And the beauty part is he can build explosives for me because he's only a contractor for Hell; he's not damned."

"Yeah he is."

Dean put down his phone. "What?"

"Well he wasn't damned before, but he's certainly damned now," continued the legal demon. "I heard he lost one of the sinners, so guess who had to take her place?"

Dean's heart sank. "Awwwwwww…"

The suit sneered. "Are you serious? Have you ever met the guy? With that stupid fake accent…"

"Find out exactly what happened," said Dean gruffly, cutting him off.

"Ten-four," replied the underling. _Better make nice with the new boss._

The peon got Dean on the phone with a grizzled bureaucrat who sounded like she'd spent her entire life, as well as however many centuries since, smoking one cigarette after another. She filled in the happenstance: after Dean left Amanda Trenton on the rack in Chamber BF X08 to go retrieve Sam, she had somehow gotten free and wandered away. By the time the IT guy had arrived she was gone and he was held responsible.

"What? How the hell does that work?" asked Dean. "All I said was 'keep her warm for me'."

"Right. Which down here is an official custody transfer," replied the bureaucrat.

"How did she manage to just walk out of Hell?"

"Well, nothing in our records indicated that she was one of the damned. She made no deal and was never subject to post-mortem judgment. Since she was brought here unauthorized, she wasn't subject to our usual rigorous security measures."

"If her jailbreak was such a slice, why hold some random nerd responsible? This makes no sense."

The bureaucrat cackled. "Where do you think you work, sonny? You set him up, we knocked him down. This here is the business of suffering. One screw-up and we drop the hammer. And you get the commission, of course."

Dean grunted and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Commission?"

"Naturally. One soul for Dean-o; that's money in the bank. I just assumed that's why you shafted Salvatore deAngelis in the first place. A soul is a soul."

_Was that his name? I thought Sully was short for Sullivan or something._ "No, I don't work for Hell," replied Dean. _Is that your new catchphrase, Dean?_

"Huh. Well, your account has been credited either way. Is there anything else you'll be needing today, Mister Winchester?"

"Yeah, can you tell me what happened to Butter… that chick that Sully lost?"

"From what we understand, she crossed paths with the Hellpriest and the pain sculptors, who sent her back to Earth."

"Where, exactly, on Earth?" asked Dean through gritted teeth. "Can you be more specific?"

"North America. In the continental United States. While we in the Inferno always strive to expand out sphere of influence, your country remains slightly outside our jurisdiction. Good day to you, Sir Dean." The raspy bureaucrat hung up.

Dean strode into Wolfram and Hart's reception and asked for directions to the nearest dive bar.

_Salvador…Angelo? _He couldn't even remember. _I can't believe I ruined someone's afterlife – by accident – and I didn't even know his name. _The scale upon which Dean had screwed up was staggering.

The Bearer of the Mark stared into his whisky, watching the ice cube swirl into the spirit as it melted. _Wow. I can't wait for my next careless mistake to bite me in the ass,_ he thought bitterly as he raised the glass to his lip.

* * *

**POP CULTURE CHEAT-SHEET**

The phrase "vulgar display of power" is the name of Pantera's classic 1992 album (which, in my canon, Sam loves and lives in the Impala.)

"Cain is Abel's keeper, not vice-versa" is a callback to chapter one (it was Crowley that said it).

The Buzzing Sign is a diner from The Simpsons. There is, indeed, a flickering neon sign out front.

ManBearPig is a monster from South Park, which Al Gore (and no one else) firmly believes is a serious threat to the world that must be eradicated.

Wolfram and Hart was established in the show Angel as the earthside chapter of Hell's legal department. (Although I suppose I could also have used John Milton's offices from The Devil's Advocate).

The Hellpriest is Clive Barker's actual, canonical name for the head Cenobite from The Hellbound Heart/Hellraiser. The fans know him as "Pinhead".


	5. Something in the Fridge is Rotting

**In this chapter, Dean busts someone out of Hell, Cole and Luke go on monster hunt, and Charlie gets a look at Sam's soul.**

* * *

_Sometimes when I dream, I remember my name. I think it started with an M. They called me that long ago in another life. That life is now so far away, it's barely a speck on the horizon. I can't even see it from where I am. When I dream of the chains, the pokers and the blades, there are times when I can almost grasp my M name. But that's always the part where the demon rips apart my train of thought and that old name goes away again._

_Once upon a time, there was a bad, bitter man that I knew well. Then along came a bad, gleeful man. And then there were two bad men. They were bad in different ways, and one was stronger than the other. He's the one who won and I guess I was the prize, because he took me away. I can tell that the first man was just as bad, because he just let it happen. I think he was called Cold. That's funny._

_The stronger, smiling bad man is called Dean. He has black eyes, but only sometimes. I got to know him well too. He spent more time with me than Cold ever did. Dean knows a lot about torture. He'll teach you too, and you don't even have to ask. He knows a million ways to light up your nerve endings and make them sing in pain. Dean can make your soul burst into flame and burn in a rainbow of brutal colour. I know because he did it to me. He once literally burned my skin off, little by little with matches. He set me on fire so many times I lost track._

_He's the one who named me Buttercup. I don't know why. He also took my M name away from me. It's okay. I was done with it, I guess. I guess it's his now. Maybe now his name is Mean. That's funny. _

_Dean smiled a lot during the knives and whips and acid and stuff. He has a really pretty smile. His whole face is pretty, but he's not. It's easy to forget that, and really hard to remember. He smiled big when I screamed and laughed hard when I cried. The more I cried, the more he laughed. I hope I never see a pretty man with a pretty smile ever, ever again. _

_Cain never, ever smiles. He can frown with his whole body. Even when he's not frowning, he has a gray beard that does it for him. I think that's why he grew it, maybe. I'm pretty sure he's not a bad man. I never see him hurt anyone and he's always so nice to me, but he sometimes tells me he's one of the bad men. I'm not sure what to think. I hope he's not a bad man. _

_I have a scar in my head. Its name is Cain, too. When I say its name, I can feel the word kill stab me in my left eye. Sometimes when I get mad, I can hear it poke the word kill in my forehead. I once met some black leather angels that showed me what it looks like, so I know the scar is real. It's invisible now, but I know it's there._

_I wish I didn't have it anymore. Nothing else Dean did to me left a scar, except that. One time I tried to get rid of it. I peeled back my skin, but it turns out that the scar's not in my skin; it's in my bone. So I tried to sand the scar-Cain off my skull and I got pretty far before the man-Cain found me and made me stop. He's really strong. He put rope on my arms and mittens on my hands, and put my head in a big white bandage. I'm not allowed to touch sharp things anymore. Not even scissors. _

_Cain grows bees. I like them. I used to be scared of them, but they're really nice. I love to hear their buzzing, and when they're all around you they can get really loud. Sometimes they get mad and sting, and you're supposed to wear a costume to protect you. I don't like the costume because it softens the buzzing, and I don't mind it when they sting. Dean once injected me with battery acid. Bee stings don't hurt. _

_Nothing hurts. Maybe that's why I used to be afraid of bees. I don't think I even have pain receptors anymore. Sometimes I bash myself and I'm covered in blood before I even realize anything is wrong. I don't miss feeling pain. It's like being free. Being free is nice. I just wish I could sleep._

_Well, actually I can sleep fine. It's just that when I do I dream, and when I dream I'm back in Dean's room, looking at his pretty face, watching his pretty smile spread as he carves a scream out of me. I wish I didn't ever need sleep, because that's what's on the other side. He's just waiting for me to lose consciousness._

_I'm so tired. I would give both arms, both legs and all my teeth for a good night's sleep. They can have my Cain-scar for free._

* * *

Dean stood on the sidewalk swaying drunkenly and contemplating the intersection behind the bar. Tiny electric cars periodically zipped by silently. He pulled a small box out of his backseat and set it down under a bush, mumbling to himself in Latin.

A slender, bespectacled woman appeared beside him with a pop.

"Who summons m- Oh it's you," the crossroads demon. "What can I do for you, handsome?"

"Hi, yeah. I'd like to, uh, cash in my stock options?" slurred Dean. "I've got one soul's credit in my, uh, account? I wanna use it to buy one of the sinners."

"You'd like to trade a soul for a soul?" the demon replied in a velvety voice. "That can be arranged, depending on the exchange rate and brokerage fees, of course. Who would you like to buy?"

"Scully… Sally… you know, the techy guy holding Buttercup's place. That guy. I wanna buy him."

The brunette raised her eyebrows. "I'm confused, Mister Winchester. With respect, he's the soul you're paying with. You can't… buy a dollar with a dollar. Are you trying to mortgage your equity in the…"

"Shut up! I wanna buy him." Dean hiccupped. "I'm gonna pick him up at the Biggerson's in downtown Fremont. Have him ready in the parking lot."

The demon pressed her palms together. "Dean, I'm going to level with you, since you're obviously new at all this. What you're asking is impossible. It makes no sense." She sighed and gave the Knight her best Sunday school teacher smile. "You can't free a soul with that same soul. They're only currency as long as they're damned. If he's not in Hell, you have nothing to pay with. You're trying to see your own eyeball, as it were."

"You're useless. Okay, how about this? I get Sully or everyone suffers."

The red-eyed woman raised a hand to her mouth, trying not to laugh. "Oh. Oh, honey. It's Hell. What is it, exactly, that you're threatening 'everyone' with? My nephew can bring the pain harder than you. No offence, of course." She pouted and put a hand on his upper arm. "You look a little worse for the wear. Why don't you go home and sleep it off? We can have this conversation when you're feeling more reasonable."

Dean looked at her hard, suddenly resonating clear-eyed lucidity. "This was your one and only chance to do this the easy way." He pulled out the Blade and stabbed her in the neck before she could even flinch. _Why is it that doing things the hard way always ends up being easier?_

* * *

All morning Cole, his son and Walter trudged through the bush and Luke didn't say a single word. The three had started the day walking in single file, with Walt leading the charge and Luke in the middle at his father's insistence. It wasn't long though before he and Cole switched places so Walt could point out and explain exactly which imaginary clues he was using to track this equally imaginary monster. Luke had no idea how to help except to hold the gun, carry the pack, be quiet and listen.

Walt stopped the convoy, crouched and turned to Cole and Luke. In a whisper so quiet it was little more than a breath, the hunter said "it knows we're here."

A series of loud footsteps abruptly crunched past the three and a nearby tree thudded, raining leaves. Then the quiet returned.

Cole's eyes widened and Luke tried to remember the last time he had seen his father even the slightest bit scared. Now he was profoundly alarmed; it was clear that the marine had not, until just now, believed that this trek was anything but a make-believe safari.

"It's huge," wheezed Cole in near-silence.

Walt nodded solemnly, put a finger to his lips then pointed into the tree's canopy. Branches cracked gently overhead and the whole trunk swayed ever so slightly as the beast shifted its weight. It obviously weighed a ton.

The two men exchanged hand signals and advanced slowly around the tree in a triangle shape, guns at the ready.

Luke backed up, trying to get a look at what was lurking in the tree when his foot hit an object in the underbrush and he almost lost his balance. He looked down and saw what he's almost tripped over: a large piece of damp red fabric and a piece of a hairy white man's arm, its wristwatch still attached.

The boy's heart hammered in his chest so loudly that he worried that the monster would be able to hear him. He flexed his fingers and made a more concerted effort not to drop his shotgun, since his grip had suddenly become much more slippery. He took a deep breath, looked again into the canopy and felt his stomach drop when he saw the thing.

It was a nightmarish patchwork of red and pink skin with random blotches of shaggy brown fur. Under its haphazard pelt rippled its muscles, its shoulder blades fluttering as it prepared to launch itself at Cole. The creature faced away from Luke, obviously unaware of his presence. Luke raised his shotgun.

"_That's some mighty fine grouping, boy. But hitting a target don't mean nuthin' in a combat scenario. Targets don't scream, they don't bleed, and they don't turn around and rip your ass out if you miss. So don't miss. Breathe, aim, and make it count. Shoot like you ain't got no second shot."_

_You got it, pops._ Luke squeezed the trigger and the monster's back exploded, filled with salted buckshot.

It shrieked and whirled on Luke, who was no longer there. He'd been knocked on his ass by the recoil, but had swiftly rolled to his feet, vacated his position and quietly circled over toward Walt.

Manbearpig launched itself out of the tree and landed with a heavy stumble right in front of Cole, who fired, blowing its lower law off its snout. The beast roared and spun, slashing at Cole with its huge claws. Cole jumped back and lost his balance.

Walt stepped out of the bushes holding a sprung bear trap by a chain, which he swung at the monster. The trap clamped onto Manbearpig's shoulder and neck, its teeth sinking deep and biting into what appeared to be an artery. Walt unsheathed his machete and hit the bleeding beast on the other side of its neck. The combined trauma of the trap and the blade separated head from torso, and sending it through the air and onto the ground in a clumsy plopping roll.

Its lips were curling and uncurling in an impotent snarl of rage as Manbearpig's head came to a stop at Luke's feet. The boy's stomach heaved and his hands quaked, but he didn't drop his gun.

Walt helped Cole to his feet and spotted Luke. "Don't touch that! Don't anyone touch any part of this damned thing. I'll fuse with your DNA and absorb you. You don't want to become part of a Luke-man-bear-pig. Just keep your eyes peeled, finger on the trigger, and shoot it if it moves. It won't stay down for long." Walt turned to Cole. "Did you remember to bring a rake like I asked you to?"

"I did," answered Cole, rather distracted.

"Groovy. You and I are cleanup. Stay alert, junior," Walt added to Luke as the two men walked back to the truck. "Remember what I told you." They left the boy to his thoughts.

Luke's teeth were on edge. He peered at the inert remains of the apparently dead monster, ready to flinch at the slightest movement. His ears scoured the placid forest noises for anything that sounded bigger than a squirrel. Luke was ready to tear the ass out of anything that so much as broke a stick in his vicinity. His nerves remained well and truly jangled, but at the same time, he'd never felt like such a badass. _What did you do on your summer vacation? Oh nothing. Just went into the woods and killed the boogeyman. No biggz. _Luke smiled at his kill._ Go ahead and get up, you ugly son of a gun. I dare you._

* * *

The following Wednesday, the doctor met Charlie at the door of Transanimation with a huge cup of coffee in her hand and let her into the clinic. Abacad bade her follow as she led her down the hall to the vault and stopped in front of the door. She leaned against the wall, making no move to open the vault. Abacad took a sip of her coffee.

"So uh… Sam's soul is behind this door?" asked the hacker.

Abacad nodded. "Be my guest."

"How am I supposed… oh, you want me to break in?"

Abacad nodded again with playful interest. "It's not supposed to be possible, but if there's a hole in my security, I'd much rather you found it than someone more malicious."

"And if I do?"

"Then you may consider yourself hired. And you get to see your friend's _rooh._"

"I'll need some coffee, Doc."

* * *

_"You spin me right 'round, baby, right 'round, like a record baby…"_

Crowley's phone thrummed in his pocket as he sat in the near-vacant boardroom. All the humans had taken a one-hour break for lunch, leaving Crowley and his 2 demon retinue behind. He pulled out his cell and answered.

"Squirrel. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Question," said Dean forcefully, "do you like puzzles? If it takes a Knight of Hell 48 seconds to figure out how to twist a demon's insides with the power of his mind, and two-thirds that time for every demon after that, how big and bloody a swath does he have to carve through the inferno before he gets to the chewy centre?"

"Well, having been home schooled by an illiterate ignoramus," began Crowley leisurely, "maths was never my strong suit. But if pressed, I'd have to say that a halfway smart Knight would, instead of ripping the guts out of random toadies, simply call this number and ask for what he wanted. I had heard that you were creating a bit of a rumpus downstairs. No need to gnaw on the Tootsie Pop; what are you trying to get, Dean?"

"Let me have an IT guy."

"Sure."

Dean was expecting more resistance than this. "He's damned. Will that be a problem?"

"Not to me. I'm sure something can be done."

Dean was suspicious, and decided to press his luck. "And I need some explosives."

"Very well. I'll direct you to one of our munitions warehouses. Anything else I can get you today?"

"Yeah. Gimme four of your best operatives. Military." _If we're asking for a dragon, what's the harm in specifying the colour?_

"Consider it done. May I ask what for?"

The demon fidgeted, feeling the tug to get off the phone with what he's gotten. Why so accommodating? "Do you care?"

"Well, with all the resources I've afforded you, it's the least you can give me. Literally," he added with a prod.

"I need to storm a vault. Think of it as a heist. A bitch has something I want and I don't think she'll just give it to me."

"Why not? I did." A thought crept into Crowley's mind and his chest tightened. _The 'bitch' in question could be anybody._ Crowley rubbed his stubble and carefully measured his next words. "Where is this vault, exactly? If we have them on record, we might be able to pull some strings."

"I doubt it. From what I remember, Doctor Abacad thinks your name is mud. If you know where Transanimation is, have my backup meet me at Ladd's Addition when I say. Is there a weapons cache in off Route 5 I can swing by and shop from?"

The king of Hell's mouth welled with saliva, none of which he could swallow away. He tasted pennies. "Naturally," he replied, trying to maintain composure. "I'll text you the address."

"Know what? Cancel the entourage." Dean hung up without answering or saying goodbye.

Crowley cleared his mouth one more time and glanced around the conference table. His demonic cohorts were trying very hard to look neutral and uninterested, and pretend they hadn't just been eavesdropping. Looking upon these snivelling, backstabbing underlings reminded him what he was about. Crowley stood to his full height, deftly pocketed his mobile and buttoned his suit jacket.

"I'm afraid I've some arrangements to make," he told the hungry ears of the group, who turned to him in unison. "Please send my regrets to the other GlaxxoSmithKline board members, and brief me in writing of the events of this afternoon. I'll submit any further board votes my text message. Good afternoon."

When he was in the elevator, Crowley snapped his fingers and at once found himself in his office in the bowels of the inferno. He sat down in his red leather chair at his antique mahogany desk and immediately began drafting a comprehensive and exhaustive list of measures that would keep him and any other demonic entity out of a space. Furthermore, it would strip, drain or severely limit the magical and supernatural abilities of any being within a large radius of the protected zone. He provided warding incantations in 18 languages covering the malevolent entities of 31 pantheons, and provided detailed installation instructions in English and Farsi. He emailed the finished document to Behrooz Abacad's professional address, then printed a copy, faxed it, then mailed the document for good measure.

For seven hours nobody disturbed the king as he toiled upon his task, and when he was finished, all his underlings gave him a wide and healthy berth.

He retired and took his seat in the throne room, for little other reason than to be seen doing so. Crowley barely listened as his subjects paraded their grievances in front of him. All the while, in the silence of his mind, his hope gave voice to the closest approximation of a prayer any demon has ever formed.

* * *

Charlie drudged at infiltrating vault security for what seemed like hours. Her calves and thighs complained about being held in a crouching position for so long, and she wished she had a stool. She couldn't get the screws out of the security access panel because they were an unusual shape, apparently applied with a key. She successfully hacked into the clinic's power grid, but was only able to interrupt power for eight seconds before the backup generators kicked in.

Charlie was able to establish a weak wireless connection between her tablet and the CPU of the security pad, but connectivity was so precarious that she wasn't able to gain much in the way of a passcode. If only she could get the access panel off the wall and get behind it. She looked again at those screwy custom screws.

They didn't even look like screws the first time she saw them: the pattern on the screw was a five-pointed star with a raised square in the centre, and obviously demanded a particular custom screwdriver to loosen them. _Who might than have such a screwdriver?_ Charlie slipped into Abacad's office, rummaged through the top drawer of her desk and found it.

After that, she set about connecting the wires inside the panel to her Raspberry Pie and created a repeating pulse that would mimic the numerical code for the door. By now Transanimation had been open about twenty minutes, and just as the punchpad trilled and Charlie thought she had cracked it, there came a metal-on-metal slamming sound. Charlie punched the wall with an angry grunt.

The doctor rounded the corner excitedly. "I just got a break-in notification on my phone. Have you solved it?"

"No, not yet," said Charlie, contemplating the electronic door lock. It should be open by now. "Is there another component to the access code?"

"Oh yes. I'm surprised you've gotten as far as you have. How did you pull off the panel without using force?"

Charlie waggled the tool at Abacad. "I found your Sonic Screwdriver, Doctor. You should probably make it into a key fob or something."

"Terrific," replied Abacad with a nod. "How close do you think you are to gaining access?"

"I don't know. Not very. I get the feeling that that heavy clunk sound was the end of it for me. Have I been locked out?"

"Without the secondary component the deadbolts deploy, yes. Can you override them?"

Charlie pulled a face. "I don't think so. What is the secondary component?"

Abacad raised an eyebrow quizzically. "Shall I tell you?"

The hacker sighed and slumped, whispering to herself "for godsakes…"

"It's a voice code," replied Abacad, trying not to smile. She could tell that her guest's patience was coming to an end.

Charlie scoffed. "No it isn't. There's no microphone. Are you messing with me?"

"The microphone is designed so it doesn't look like a microphone."

"Well hell, Doc. Looks like no one's getting in here."

Abacad checked her watch. "I'll give you another 45 minutes. If you've not opened the vault by then, I agree to let you in."

"Aw, come on…"

"I won't have time to chaperone you until then, in any case."

* * *

"Cole, all due respect," began Walt as retrieved supplies from his pickup truck, "that is not the way I would have had that go down."

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that. Jungle combat ain't what I'm used to."

"That's not what I meant." Walt lifted a bundle of paper leaf bags and rubber gloves and handed them to Cole. "You should have left your boy at the motel."

"If I remember correctly, he blew the thing out of the tree. I appreciate your concern, but this ain't our first rodeo."

Walt shook his head and pulled out a canvas duffle bag. He frowned and pursed his lips. "You were in the Corps? You saw combat?"

"I did."

"You look like you've seen some stuff. Were you right in the middle of the suck? How nasty did it get?"

"Real nasty. Things I can't describe."

Walt nodded and pouted in thoughtful assent. "Do you tend to tell war stories around the dinner table? At bedtime, does Luke get to hear about all them nasty things his daddy can't describe?"

"Look, I can see where you're going with this. I had my way, if the world were the way it's supposed to be, Luke would be playing soccer right now. Ain't nuthin' I want more than for him to make mud pies and play with cap guns. But if I pretend there's no evil in this world, that ain't doin' him any favors. There is no protecting him from the scary evil bastards of the world. He needs to be prepared. Not only for his sake, but for the sake of every person that doesn't die by the claws of the things we hunt. D'you follow?"

"No, I follow. Alls I'm saying is that this is no way to raise a kid. He will not thank you for this."

"He doesn't have to," replied Cole. "If he grows into a survivor, that's thanks enough for me." They turned and walked with the gear toward the corpse.

"Alright man, I've said my piece. I just know what happens to a kid when you bring them up in this life. Behind every hunter is a long-ass trail of blood, loss and tragedy. The earlier you start, the longer the trail. Do you want to raise a soldier or a son?"

Cole flipped the shovel in his hand. "You got a problem with soldiers?"

Walt shook his head, both in reply and in defeat. It takes an idiot not to recognize when a man has stopped listening to you. They walked in silence back to where Luke was standing guard, trembling and grinning in astonishment.

"Its hand started twitching and I didn't wanna hurt the gun or waste ammo, so I bashed it with a stick until it stopped," Luke blustered breathlessly. "Can we get its head mounted on a plaque?"

Walt answered before Cole could. "Sorry, kid. It's going on the pyre. We even have to rake up all the leaves it bled on."

Cole was halfway grateful Walt had gotten the first word in. It saved him reminding his son – and himself, for that matter – that _boy, we're livin' out of motels. Where we gonna hang it?_

* * *

Charlie kept hammering away at her task. It was really slow going, since it took trial and error to find the microphone and its override, and every time she failed, a mechanism would lock her out. Working around the time locks cost her 5 minutes every time she tripped one. _What a colossal pain in the ass_, she thought, sticky with frustrated sweat and wishing she had brought some C4, _but I suppose it could be worse._ Charlie made a note to upgrade to compounding timelocks on the next version of security.

Abacad found the hacker sitting in the hallway, legs splayed and doing nothing. She'd packed up her tools and reassembled the multi-layer electronic lock. She looked up at the surgeon, disheartened. She shook her head, raised her hands and flopped them down onto her lap with a sigh. Her admission of defeat was clear.

The doctor looked genuinely apologetic. She'd intended for this task to be an intriguing puzzle, not the obvious series of crushing stonewalls it had turned out to be. She leaned forward and made no attempt to hide her fingers as she punched the 8-digit code into the pinpad. Nor did she ask Charlie to cover her ears as she sang the phrase 'may I have your attention' into the LED display screen. The door opened and the woman sitting on the floor brightened visibly. She got to her feet and walked into the vault with trepidation.

Charlie remarked on the busy red pattern on the ceiling, and tight concentric rings of warding on the floor around both the entrance and the sliding doors of the large freezer. On the interior shelves were lined a series of two dozen or so objects, each labelled with a letter and covered by a piece of canvas, some of which appeared to be stained.

Abacad clicked on a switch at the side of the fridge and the interior's fluorescent lights came reluctantly to life. Charlie felt like some of the jars squirmed before her eyes, but it might have just been her imagination.

* * *

Cole, Walt and Luke raked, shovelled, hacked and scooped ManBearPig's remains into the yard waste bags to incinerate in the firepit they were going to build in a nearby field.

From behind a tree, Cole and Luke could hear Walt grunt in dismay. "Aw… damnit, Al. Why didn't you wait for me, you damned fool?"

"What's wrong?" asked Luke, coming around the tree.

"I don't want you to see this, stay where you are," barked Walt in a warbling voice, waving an open hand in front of the boy. Luke already knew what he had found.

"I found the guy with the wristwatch before we opened fire. Did you know him?" Walt nodded. "I'm sorry for your loss. Who was he?"

"He used to be an environmental activist, pretty famous, actually. He discovered ManBearPig and for the longest time, nobody listened to him." Walt wiped his nose with his sleeve and pulled off the wristwatch and threw the arm in the waste bag. "I gotta make sure his wife gets that."

* * *

The doctor pulled her keys out of her lab coat pocket and unlocked the sliding door. As swiftly as she could, she opened the door, leaned into the fridge, yanked the cloth off Jar D and closed the door again. Abacad waved the cloth in the air, trying to dispel the gust of bad air from the fridge.

Charlie coughed and raised a hand to her nose. "Ugh, is that why you keep them refridgerated? To keep them fresh? Because I don't think it's working."

Abacad hit another switch, activating a fan. The strong smell of dead-animal-in-the-sun and pine needles dissipated quickly. "They're all rotting in a way, some more swiftly than others. It wouldn't matter what temperature the fridge was."

The hacker leaned forward until her forehead met the glass, pondering the specimen – or rather, pair of specimens – in Jar D. They were the same size and shape, and they reminded Charlie of a pair of friendly, dark greenish-blue bananas. One had smooth, iridescent reptilian scales and the other had a rougher, more jagged texture like a pineapple.

"Sam has two souls?" asked Charlie. "Or did you need to cut it in two to get it out? That's what happened when I got my wisdom teeth out."

"Sam has one soul in two pieces. That's how it was during extraction. I have no idea why it's like that," answered Abacad. "Sam himself might."

Before Charlie's eyes the two halves bumped into each other and jerked apart as if recoiling from pain. The pineapple's spines bristled more sharply for a second and both slugs extruded a bit of what looked like seedless raspberry jam into their tank.

Abacad turned away from the fridge, leaning on it and looking pointedly up at the ceiling.

"Eew, what just happened?" asked Charlie, remarking that Abacad was apparently giving the specimen some privacy.

Abacad shook her head in disappointment. "The patient just did something he shouldn't have done."

"What did he do?"

"I don't know. Something callous or selfish," she answered with a wave of her hand. "If I had to guess, he hurt someone. His _rooh_ has been steadily and very rapidly deteriorating, especially in the last few weeks."

"So you can tell how bad a person is by how ugly their soul is?" Charlie asked, lighting up. "That's awesome. You have a whole freezer of Pictures of Dorian Gray. Can I see someone else's?"

"I'd rather you didn't, but what I can show you is the extent of your friend's damage." Abacad walked over to a touchscreen mounted on a pole near the fridge, punched the same 8-digit code and sang the same voice code song to de-activate its security.

Charlie grunted and raised a finger in disapproval. "Same code? Bad idea. You want a different code for everything, otherwise if someone cracks one door, they can crack 'em all." She paused. "And while we're at it, you should keep your keys in your pants pocket."

"I'm wearing a skirt."

"That's another thing: wear pants. Otherwise I could go ahead and do this…" Charlie jangled the keys she'd already lifted from Abacad's labcoat, dashed to the fridge, unlocked, opened it and snatched the cloth off Jar H.

Abacad watched with relish as the hacker choked on the stench she'd unbottled and beheld in shock Specimen H: It looked like a bloated condom full of rusty, orange oatmeal and covered in ugly, olive green splotches and long, thin black spines. It sat in a jar of clear fluid, inert.

"That is freaking ratchet," gurgled Charlie in revulsion. She fumbled for the fan switch, dismayed to find that it was already on. Abacad jostled her aside, opened the fridge, replaced both cloths and took the keys out of Charlie's hand as she was doubled over.

"I think I should sit down," said the hacker and she watched the doctor lock the fridge. "Who the hell is that? How do you even mess up your soul that bad?"

Abacad smiled and considered. Normally she'd remain silent in matters regarding patient confidentiality, but what obligation did she have to the dead – especially a dead man as reprehensible and morally bankrupt as this one?

"That's… that _was_ Bellamy Finch. A truly repugnant man even before his animectomy. You can imagine how much worse he became after the procedure."

Charlie found her breath. "I bet you could get big bucks for that," she offered, to which the surgeon rolled her eyes. Charlie continued. "Are there bad people out there just walking around with those ugly-ass things in their heads?"

Abacad nodded. "Well, they're in their chests, but yes." She navigated the screen on the tablet and looked at the redhead. She smiled. "Your services are worth every penny, miss Bradbury."

The file that Abacad opened was a numbered series of photos that began on January 8th and continued until the present day. They were stills of the twin specimens in Jar D and showed their progression from smooth, luminescent cyan creatures sitting in colourless brine to the jagged dark slugs sitting in rosy red silt that could be seen now in the fridge. Charlie flipped through the slideshow.

"Well, that's not so bad, I guess."

Abacad inhaled and shook her head. "Well, it's not the worst I've ever seen, but it certainly isn't good. When I first examined him, I would never have guessed Mister Winchester capable of such… turpitude."

"He knew this would happen, didn't he?"

Abacad nodded. "If you'd like to stay or take a moment, you're welcome to. You've more than earned it."

Charlie sighed. "No, I think I've seen enough." She gasped when a thought occurred to her. "Could you repair his soul? Restore its light, like in the first few shots?"

"That's not the way it works. And even if it were, like I said, it's not my place. All these specimens are the responsibility of their owners."

Charlie whirled on Abacad. "_You're_ their owner. The responsibility is yours."

"I misspoke. These _rooh_ are their own agents. They make their own ways. They make their own bad decisions. One can't _make _someone agree or believe or behave against their will." She smiled and added, "my parents could have told you that."

"But _you_ could, though! You're the soul hacker. You _could_ fix these people."

"I could but I won't. I am not the _basij_ of _rooh_. The Gestapo, if you will. I don't wish to descend that slope. I am not a god."

Charlie grunted, her hands forming claws in the air as she tried to form her frustrated objection. "Ugh!" was all the counter-argument she could muster. "Fine!"

Abacad looked at Charlie sadly, knowing exactly the extent and nature of her rage. _You have no idea how this decision agonizes me, child. I often find myself exactly where you are._ The surgeon patted her shoulder and offered a small smile, before turning toward the hallway. "It is as it must be," was all she said before ushering them both out of the vault and reactivating security.

* * *

"You know when people talk about Hell they just kinda throw the word around like it's nuthin you know it's like 'stupid as hell' or 'hot as hell' or 'long as hell' without any reference or context to just how stupid-hot or long Hell actually is because it's crazy because Hell will completely shred you and I had no idea because how could I possibly right? and nobody has any idea what it's really like because it's not even supposed to be real," yammered Sully the IT guy as he hugged his shoulders and rocked back and forth.

His transfer from the psychodramatic soul-grinder to the parking lot, to the inside of the Impala to the highway had all occurred within 180 seconds, and he was still having trouble getting his bearings.

When Dean first met the guy he was skinny; now he was downright gaunt, his flannel shirt hanging off his jutting shoulders and collarbone as if he were a coat hanger.

The demon's shrivelled black heart went out to the guy – it really did. He was real sorry for what happened with Amanda back there. It's just that he'd be a little more sympathetic to the guy if he would shut his ass up for three freaking seconds.

"I could never do what you do," continued Sully in his manic, staccato shock blather. "I get so sick even at the sight of blood but then it's Hell and torture is its own end so no one really has any blood 'cause nobody has any working veins anymore so it's all just for the visual… visual effect I guess and I would…"

"Alright look," interrupted Dean in a loud voice. "What's it gonna take to shut you up? Because you sound like you're on speed right now. What can I get you? Booze? Ritalin? A freaking puppy? What? Do you need more drugs? Because I can get you speed no problem."

Sully's voice disappeared and he leaned back, shrinking into the leather of the Impala's bench seat. He looked fretfully at the scowling demon in the driver's seat and tried to stop panting. He pulled his feet onto the seat and hugged his knees, and the trembling in his body calmed down.

"Actually, I could go for a little less speed, if you don't mind," breathed Sully, closing his eyes to block the flashing of the perforated line on the road.

Dean did indeed ease off the gas and Sully opened his eyes.

"Thanks. I, uh, actually died in a car accident." His heartbeat was slowing down. "Will you level with me? Is it over? Am I going to end up back in Hell when you're done with me?"

Dean nodded, staring at the road. "It's over."

Sully gasped and exhaled, his eyes welling. "I don't get it. Any of this? Are you a demon? Why are you offering me things? Demons don't offer people puppies."

Dean flicked black eyes at Sully, who flinched. "Yeah, I'm a demon. But I'm trying not to be."

The IT guy nodded and decided not to pry. "Where are we going?"

"Warehouse in Medford," grunted Dean.

"Do you need me for something, or are you just dropping me somewhere?"

"What do you know about explosives? You know, rockets, firecrackers, bombs…"

"Lots of stuff!" squawked Sully, brightening. "I'm not that great with the rocketry side. When I was a kid I tried one rocket kit, but I could never get the hang of that whole multi-stage thing. Plus I think I put the engine in upside-down. But when I was in high school I saw Fight Club and then I read the book, and I kind of wanted to grow up and work on action movies or something, you know, blowing up cars and helicopters and stuff. One summer, all my friend and I did was blow stuff up. Not like terrorists or anything, but we used to have contests just to see who could blow up the target the best. I wasn't as good as Liz was, but that's only because she was way more into it than me. The games were called…"

"Okay, great," interrupted Dean again. "Good to know. You're going to help me with a smash-and-grab I need to pull off."

Sully was quiet for a moment, then quickly added "the games were called the Splodi-lympics, okay now I'm done."

They drove in blissful silence for a long time. Sully made an effort to button his lip and not say things like _a smash-and-grab? If you're trying not to be a demon, you've got to try a lot harder than that._

* * *

Charlie snatched up her backpack from the floor outside Abacad's soul vault and stalked into reception, pausing a moment to demand rhetorically of Vandaveon, "don't you hate it when the world sucks and there's nothing you can do about it?"

Van nodded thoughtfully, and answered without a trace of sarcasm. "I know, right? It's the worst." He handed her a cheque.

Charlie grabbed it, charged at the door, yanked it, then pushed it open and stormed away and out of the clinic.

Van watched her leave with amusement, joined soon after in reception by Abacad. He turned to his boss. "Why you gotta disillusion the cute white girls all the time? Here's the mail." Van handed her a bundle of flyers and white executive envelopes. "And, uh, this one came for you from the, uh… from the devil." He passed her a heavy manila envelope with a red stamped wax seal. "Seemed important."

Abacad took it from him, raising her eyebrows. "Many thanks. What else is on the agenda for today?"

"Um, you have a check-in with Fubari in an hour, but Doctor Nahali said he could do it. Legal needs you to sign off on the insurance alterations to a contract – can't remember which one – and I also told Bizarre magazine that you would give them a 15-minute interview at six o'clock." He looked at Abacad in alarm. "Did I forget to tell you about that, again?"

"You did, yes. It's quite alright." Abacad broke the seal on the manila envelope. "What did the journalist wish to speak about?" She pulled out a pair of thick documents, one in her native language.

"The future of body modification. They're interested in your work in personal reconfiguration." Vandaveon paused, taking in the fierce interest blooming on the surgeon's face at the sight of the envelope's contents. He cleared his throat. "If you want, I can probably pawn the interview off on Sandeep too. If you want."

Abacad put down the mail, the envelope and the English version of Crowley's security plan. She flipped through several pages, lips moving as she took in the directives. It took her some effort to bring herself back to the present.

"Six o'clock sounds fine. Vandaveon, first chance you get, would you please reschedule any and all appointments for the next…" She took another look at the document. "…nine days. We need to overhaul security. And siege protocol, for that matter."

"Again?" Van sighed. "Whatever you say, doc. Just so you know though, it's gonna cost us, like, twelve thousand dollars in cancellation fees."

Abacad looked back at the document. "We are facing a much larger problem than that," she said vehemently before grabbing the rest of the mail and retreating to her office.

* * *

**CHEAT SHEET**

The dead man with the wristwatch and red tablecloth cape that Lucas and Walter find is Al Gore (a reference to South Park).

When Dean told Crowley that "Doctor Abacad thinks your name is mud," it, unbeknownst to Dean, really cut him to the quick.

A Raspberry Pie is a small, crude, utility computer used to teach programming to children. Its software is a blank slate, and could, hypothetically, be used for anything.

Charlie's referral to Abacad's special screwdriver as "sonic", as well as her use of the word "Doctor" in that sentence are a reference to BBC's Doctor Who. SuperWhoLock shout-out!

"The Corps" refers to the marines, and "the suck" is (I believe) the colloquial term for a combat situation.

Abacad's vault passcode "may I have your attention" is a snippet of Drowning Pool's song Sermon, from the end of the album Sinner. Vandaveon picked it.

The reason Sam's soul is in two pieces is because it got fractured during its stay in the Lucifer/Michael cage. When Death helped Dean reassemble Sam, he had to put up a wall between the two halves for the sake of Sam's sanity (or so goes my canon).

Charlie likens the specimens in Abacad's vault to the Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde's classic book which features a physically perfect and perpetually youthful lead character who possesses a portrait that magically ages in his place. As he sins and transgresses, the blood of his crimes and the symptoms of his venereal diseases appear on the painting as well.

Bellamy Finch is the title character of an original story of mine called _The Snake in the Suit_. He's an executive that got his soul removed, then sought to become immortal (to which Abacad refused cooperation). He was killed when his assets were cut off, but his soul remains in perpetuity in Abacad's vault, as per the parameters of his extraction contract.

The _basij_ are the Iranian morality police, often embodied by young, power-tripping thugs with state-granted authority.


	6. The Bloodshed Lullaby

_"I was wrong. You haven't changed at all; you're still evil. And when you try to be good, you're even more evil." -Lisa Simpson (to Montgomery Burns)_

* * *

The warehouse Dean and Sully arrived at stood all alone in the middle of a cracked, concrete field. It had multiple broken windows in its crumbling façade, and it looked from the outside as if it were abandoned.

"You the weapons and demo guy?" grunted Dean to the liaison Hell had sent.

"That's me," replied the demon. His vessel was a long-haired ginger with bad posture and dark little circular sunglasses that floated in front of his pupils.

"I'm trying to break into a building and I could care less about subtlety," said Dean. "What can you show me that'll cut a hole in a brick wall?"

"That all depends. How thick is the wall?"

"How thick are they usually?" asked Sully.

"Do you have a blueprint of the building?" asked the Demo Guy. Sully looked to Dean.

"No. What is this, the freaking question game?" sneered Dean, getting impatient. "How hard is it to blow a hole in concrete? The army does it all the time by accident."

"I thought you said the wall was brick."

Dean pulled out his pearl-handled Colt to Sully's alarm and shot the demo guy twice in the stomach.

"Jesus!" bleated the IT guy.

Demo guy didn't flinch, but simply looked at Dean over his glasses, unperturbed. "Feel better, boss? Look, I'm not trying to be a pill. I have the tools to do anything you need. But you have to tell me what you need. We could bring down the whole structure, if that's what you want. What's on the other side of the brick wall? Do you care?"

"Yeah, I care. I need to bust in without blowing up what we're trying to steal."

"Okay, now we're getting somewhere. What are you trying to steal?"

Dean considered this. The less anyone else knew, the better. "Medical waste."

"Wait a second," interrupted Sully. "You work for Hell, don't you, Demo Guy?"

"I have a name," sniffed Demo Guy.

"Right," said Dean slowly, realizing his impasse. "Okay, you brief Sully here. Show him the ropes, give him the gear and then _he'll_ be the one who busts open the wall. No paper trail, no connection to the Pit." He slapped Sully in the arm. "Good lookin' out, Pencil Neck."

Dean canted his neck, contemplating Sully's. The Mark throbbed, but he scolded himself. _No snapping pencils today, Dean. We need this pencil._

Dean punched a wall idly, creating a sizeable dent. He clenched and unclenched his hand.

Sully cleared his throat nervously. "If you really want to be on the safe side, you could always wait outside while we talk. I'd hate to bore you, anyway."

Dean shrugged dismissively and left without answering.

* * *

It was getting dark before Cole, Walt and Luke were standing watching their kill (and the ManBearPig's) go up in flames.

"Tell me where Dean Winchester is," commanded Cole quietly as sparks from the blaze rose into the sky.

"You gonna kill him?" asked the grizzled hunter.

Cole nodded, squinting against the heat on his face. "Nice and slow-like."

Walt tisked. "Can't do that without doin' 'is brother."

"I got no beef with his brother."

"Don't matter. You kill Dean, he'll have beef with you."

Cole didn't answer. He stared into the pyre, imagining that it was the demon roasting in front of him instead. He could feel his own anger smouldering in his chest.

Walt continued. "Whatever you do to Dean ain't my concern. But it's Sam that's got to die." Cole broke out of his revenge fantasy and looked at the hunter quizzically. "As bad as you think Dean is, Sam's worse. He's the golden boy of the Infernal design. He is the Great Satan, I kid you not. Promise me you'll take him out."

"Alright, fine." _Crazy old coot. Sam was small potatoes._

Walt nodded. "Last I heard, Dean was haunting a dive bar in Beulah, North Dakota, near the Knife River. You gotta be careful though, him bein' all chummy with Hell's VIPs and all."

"Demon entourage?" Walt nodded. "I can handle demons. I got some tricks up my sleeve."

"I hope you're right, friend. I hope they stay dead, too. I can't explain it, but them boys once survived chests full o'buckshot at five paces. Sam took two slugs himself and yet he's still kickin'."

"That's crazy. Who shot 'em?"

"I did, me and my partner Roy. Ex-partner."

Cole whistled. "And buckshot can't drop a demon?"

Now it was Walt's turn to be bewildered. "They're not demons."

"Well, Dean is."

Walt's jaw dropped and he took a deep, slow breath. Cole turned to the pyre to give the hunter a bit of privacy while he whispered prayers to himself with a heavy heart. All Cole could make out was "Babylon the great…"

Walt turned back to Cole, and his face said everything. _I don't think you can win this_. He gulped and seized the marine's hand in an inverted, sincere handshake of camaraderie. "Godspeed to you. I mean that. I'll give you a list of other hunters that can help you out. Tell them what you told me. Not for nuthin', but you're gonna need all the help you can get. I'll stay here until the fire burns down." He turned past Cole to Luke. "So long, son. I want you to practise your shooting and your running, because you never…"

Walt trailed off as his eyes found Luke's pendant. _There it is again_. He lifted it with his fingers and strained back to remember where he'd seen it before. _Crumpled beer cans, motel bedspread, flannel shirt, pooling bloodstain, the lifeless neck of…_

"Where did you get this?" asked Walt suddenly, louder than he'd meant to.

"Get what?" asked Cole.

"I found it," answered Luke uneasily.

"Found it my ass. Nobody just finds this. _How_ did you get this?" demanded the hunter, yanking the cord impulsively.

"Don't lay a hand on my son," objected Cole, shoving Walt in the shoulder. He wasn't trying to hurt him, just bring him to his senses. "Why so uptight?"

Walt dropped the pendant. "That isn't yours, boy. If Dean Winchester s still alive, there's no way you could have gotten it."

"Why the hell not?" barked Cole.

"Because it's his, that's why. The only time I ever saw him without it was when Roy blew him away. Did he give it to you? Are you trying to return it? What does it do?"

Walt's mind was frantically churning out conspiracy theories, drawing connections between the missing bronze tiki guy and Dean's return from the dead. Had it been keeping him human and now, without it, he's a demon? But then how did Sam come back to life too?

"I don't know," replied Luke. "It's just a necklace. I like it."

"There you go. Luke is not a thief. We're just going to be on our way now, I think." Cole slapped Walt in the arm fiercely, treading the line between boisterous friend and aggressor. "Thanks for everything, Walt. See you on the flipside." Cole gave Walt a pointed, vaguely threatening look and trudged with his son back through the woods to the car.

Walt might have called after him if he could give voice to his suspicions. The marine wasn't telling him something, but not knowing what he didn't know, Walt didn't know what to accuse him of. Oh well. No matter. If Cole's hunting Dean and Dean's a demon, the guy's dead meat. _Ain't my job to talk a man out of killin' 'imself_. Still, too bad about that poor kid of his. A cryin' shame, a boy with no future.

* * *

Dean wandered into the parking lot of Hell's munitions warehouse, where he saw a purple Alfa Romeo 4C. He was impressed for a second before thinking to himself _douchemobile._ He did not expect to see his brother climb out.

"If you're going to be boosting cars, the least you could do is steal American," said Dean with contempt. "Gawdy-ass piece of eurotrash."

"This isn't stolen; it's a company car," replied Sam, taking no offence.

"A company car from Crowley? Then I hate to break it to you Sam, but that thing is absolutely stolen." He frowned at his brother. "What are you doing here? Are you following me?"

Sam shook his head. "I'm just here picking up some supplies."

"Oh what, for another drive-by cartel assassination?"

"Why are _you_ here?"

Dean shrugged and looked away with a squint. "Same as you."

"Right. Well, good luck."

"Yeah, you too, Hitman Sam. You know this is gonna bite you in the ass, right?"

Sam scoffed and walked past Dean frostily. "Nice seeing you, Dean."

Dean watched his brother walk into the warehouse and could feel his hands ringing, the Mark jangling through his veins like a bell made of bloodlust. He squeezed his elbow. The ringing dissipated as Sam walked away.

_Why are you going to so much trouble to redeem him?_ Dean could almost hear the Mark ask him. _It would be so much easier to kill him. It'd be more fun, too._ He smiled and relaxed, imagining himself ripping a handful of bleeding gristle out of Sam's neck. He let the fantasy wash over him, visualized in graphic detail tearing his brother's torso in half – _"I thought he smelled bad on the outside" _– and looked down to find the First Blade in his hand.

Dean didn't remember pulling it out of his belt, but now he was gripping it so hard that it took some effort to unlock his fingers and loosen his hand. His arm didn't want to put it down and for a minute there, neither did Dean. It felt so right in his hand that it was almost an extension of his arm. He didn't care to imagine his arm without the Mark on his elbow and that bone in his hand. Without it, he'd be like a face without eyes.

Dean snapped to attention and dropped his weapon. He looked at his angry hand, his fingers still hooked like a talon. He took a deep breath, picked it back up gingerly – trying to touch it as little as possible – and carefully put it in the Impala's glovebox. He closed it and sat down in the shotgun seat, remarking how much deeper Sam's ass-dent is than his own. His phone rang.

It was Sully. "Hey, man. We're pretty much good on our end. I'm ready to boogie if you are."

"That was fast."

"Three hours is fast?" asked Sully. "I'm glad you think so. Um, can you bring the car to the loading dock? There's an assload of stuff to take."

Dean rubbed his brow hard. "Yeah, yeah I can do that." He hung up and slid across the bench seat, put the car into gear, then backed toward Sully. As he inched the trunk into position, he thought to himself _I gotta figure out a way to relax. How do normal people do it? Yoga? Might be worth a try._

Good god.

_I really am losing it._

* * *

Besides references to an antique revolver that seems to have fallen off the face of the earth, Cole had not been able to find anything in all his research about how one goes about killing a demon. But he sure as hell knew how to hurt one.

Lots o'holy water, lots o'salt, all administered from the safety around the Devil's Trap. Getting his hands on some holy water might take some doing, but he'd picked up some six-gallon jugs and water guns to be on the safe side. Idly, Cole wondered if it was possible to consecrate Claymores or tear gas canisters.

That night, dinner was Vietnamese sandwiches that father and son polished off in their motel room.

"When you were a kid, did you ever think of filling a SuperSoaker with gas and turning it into a flamethrower?" asked Lucas.

Cole shook his head. "My brother tried to do that with Kerosene once, but it ate through the plastic and leaked everywhere. It was a real shame too, because that water gun was dope and we wrecked it. It was nothing compared to the new SuperSoakers, though."

Luke bristled. "I wish you would have taken me shopping."

"Sorry boy, but I've seen you in action," replied Cole. "If I had brought you along, we would have been there all night." Luke bit into his sandwich and sulked. Cole continued. "When we're done here, you're welcome to come with me to the hardware store. We need spray paint and more road salt."

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather stay here," said Luke hopefully. "There's a business centre next to the breakfast room and I wanted to go online for a little while. It's been so long since I've been on Facebook, all my friends probably think I'm dead."

Cole frowned. "I suppose that'd be alright. Make sure sit in a spot with a clear view of the door, and don't mention to anyone where we are. And don't wear headphones."

Luke sighed. _Why can't you just tell me not to watch porn like a normal dad?_ "Yes, sir."

* * *

On October 12th, the Transanimation Wellness Clinic shuttered its doors and granted paid leave to all its staff members.

All security cameras were disassembled, their components replaced with more crude electronic alternatives and their lenses were given a regimen of enchantment (not unlike that of Abacad's _third eye_ glasses) by an accomplished 237-year old sorcerer that came highly recommended. In fact, Crowley's security proposal was so thorough that he'd also included a list of third-party magical contractors that could implement the entire thing, as well as their contact information.

All warding rings in sensitive areas, while still retaining the shape of their delineating borders, were now elaborate fractal patterns of interlocking, inter-cultural repellents. They now defied everything from tulpas to kelpies, ghosts, ghasts, ghouls, demons, demigods, bridge trolls, internet trolls, kalupiluits and Jehovah's Witnesses. In fact, no being that wasn't at least 60% alive could even make it onto the premises anymore, and cell service in the building went straight down the tubes.

This entire process was overseen by Abacad herself, who was, on October 16th in her office trying to develop a design for collars that would lessen the biological effects of the heavy-duty warding. It had occurred to her that one of the most indispensable members of her staff was a non-human being; Maritza the liposuction technician was in fact a Pischtacco, and Abacad wanted to do everything she could to keep the good in, just as to keep the bad out.

She had decided to adapt her examination glass-technology and apply it to a selective allowance field. It was a puzzle that she was – quite literally – toiling away at feverishly, having come down with a headcold that had worsened the entire week of the magical upgrade. Her increasingly intense fever had made it rather difficult to keep her hands steady and focus on her task, but she pressed on.

She leaned over her desk, sniffing to avoid dripping snot onto the necklace she was working on. It was a simple choker of polished, half-metallic gemstones her husband had bought her to compliment one specific dress in her wardrobe. Abacad was helped in her research by the appendix to Crowley's security plan, as well as her past experience (and the internet), but she still felt unsure that she was even close to doing it right. She was beginning to get frustrated and would occasionally stop to laugh at the absurdity of her task. _A magic necklace? This is ridiculous._ Finally she gave up and put the choker on the way it was. It was, after all, a very pretty little piece of cheap jewellery.

Abacad blew her nose and cleared her throat, glad that her cold was finally starting to let up. She was feeling pleased that she could soon stop worrying about some demonic maniac breaking in and get back to work. She placed a hand on her now-much-less feverish cheek. She felt better already.

* * *

It was almost midnight by the time Cole got back and Luke was still on the internet. Cole let himself into the business suite with his room key-card and Luke seemed excited to see him. The boy's exuberance quashed Cole's desire to scold him for not putting himself to bed.

"Dad, you would not believe what I found," blurted Luke. "Did you know you can trap a demon by carving a Devil Trap onto a bullet and shooting it?"

"Well, ain't that crafty?" commented Cole wearily. He'd had a beer or two on the way home and was feeling a little slow on the uptake. "What's this you're looking at? 'Non Timebo '?"

"I Googled 'Winchester demon hunter' and I ended up finding this huge webring. It links to these mythology databases, message boards, a LARP website and a bunch of fansites for a teen book series."

"A book series?"

"Yeah. About Sam and Dean. And check this out – has a whole bunch of hunter support. You know that big long exorcism that Walter wrote down for you? It's available for download as a ringtone. There's a Latin translation engine, a guide to protective sigils, designs for different Devil and Monster traps…"

"Who wrote all this?"

"It's user-generated. A lot of it was uploaded by hardcore fans of the Sam and Dean books. 'Samlicker83' appears a lot. Hunternet is hosted by the Moondoor servers, and the welcome message is signed 'King Charles'."

Cole pulled over a swivel chair and sat down, his elbows on his knees. "How do you kill a demon?"

"That was the first thing I looked up," replied Luke brightly. "There's a knife that can kill both the host and the demon, but it doesn't say how to get one. Angels can kill demons with their minds, but their weapons will kill demons too. No mention on how to get those either."

"What about that kill-anything gun I heard about?"

"They call it the Colt," replied Lucas, switching tabs. "It says it was last seen in a cemetery in Kansas. I doubt it's still there. Um, you can also burn a demon's remains…"

"Demons don't have bodies, boy."

"Well, the bodies they had then they were alive. It's people that turn into demons after a long time in Hell. There's a rumour that you can kill a demon with witchcraft…"

"No, no," said Cole, cutting off Luke. "We are not touching the black arts. We're trying to fight monsters here, not become them." The marine stood up and clapped his son on the shoulders. "Anyhow, it's after midnight, so I'd say it's about time you headed to bed. You've had a big day."

Luke got out of the chair and watched his father sit straight down in front of the computer. "Goodnight, dad."

Cole didn't look away from the screen. "Goodnight, Lucas."

* * *

_I think it's better to be a dog than to be a jack o'lantern. _

_Dean with the black eyes turned me into a jack o'lantern. He is the most creative person I can think of. He hollowed me out, pulled out my guts, carved a smile onto my face and turned me from a living vegetable to a lighted sculpture. I'm a performance art piece. This is the course of things. There's lots of stuff that has to die for it to have value. A gourmet meal, for example._

_A chicken is never as captivating, and tender and loveable in life as it is in death. A roast chicken is a thing of beauty. I can remember pulling one apart with my hands and hoping my corpse would one day be as cherished as this bird's. I can sympathize with chickens now. Its suffering and death are beautiful – delicious even – to someone from the outside._

_Roast chickens and jack o'lanterns – objects with meaning outside themselves. Like me, a bit. I am the instrument of my maker. What the demon did to me wasn't personal. It was a learning experience for him. It doesn't matter what happened to me because I'm not the main character in the story._

_It doesn't really matter what happens to dogs either. Chewbacca and Gromit were the brains of the operations, but they don't speak English, so who cares about them? I'd rather be Cain's dog than Dean's jack o'lantern. Cain is a good owner. I'm his pet. I wish I could help out more at his bee farm._

_I don't think I should stay here. I'm not a very good pet and I'm not very good at bees. My mind is foggy and cluttered, and the only time I'm able to put the chains, hammers and razors out of my head is when I think of the Blade instead. The Knife with Teeth is a massacre with a handy handle grip. I can't stop imagining it in my hand, gripping the wrapped leather with my fingers. My Cain-scar falls quiet then, and we three would go about truncating the human race. There's not much in this world I can be sure about, but I'm positive about that. The Blade and I need each other._

_The man Cain knows exactly what I'm talking about. Once I was in the barn by myself all afternoon, just drawing pictures of the Blade in the dust over and over again. When Cain saw what I'd done, I thought he was going to kill me. It was clear the he was seriously considering it. He had just realized that his dog was rabid and would have to put me down, but he wouldn't be able to do it without catching what I have. I must be contagious._

_He didn't want to tell me what the Blade was, but once he started, he couldn't stop himself. Cain told me how he once held it and chopped up men, women and monsters, all starting with his brother. _

_Most knives have other purposes, but not that one. It doesn't cut rope, or vegetables, or cloth. It cuts people, separating beings from their lives in big deep gashes. It turns the world hot and red and sticky. It slices veins, but can't perform surgery. It can chop an army down, but can't harvest a crop of wheat. The only meat it can carve is alive, twitching and breathing. That Blade makes things die. It's the only thing it does. And when Cain held it, it was the only thing he could do, too._

_Cain told me how difficult it was to put it down again, how hard it was to stop being Death and turn back into a man. He still doesn't think he quite turned all the way back. It was hard to hear him while he was talking because the whole time the scar-Cain was singing me the bloodshed lullaby. The man-Cain was telling me of woe and regret, of destruction and cosmic curses, of pain and screaming, but I think he could tell that I was listening to the lullaby instead. He had to shake me to wake me back up._

_I asked him if he misses being something. When he put down the Blade, he put down his purpose. He said that he lost his meaning when his brother died. I don't have a brother. Cain had a Blade longer than he had a brother. I had a demon longer than I had a husband. I asked Cain again if he misses being something and this time, instead of telling me another lie, he just said "the bees help"._

_I can't remember if I was ever anything, but I'm nothing now. I'm a hollow dead pumpkin, moldy on the porch. I'm a chicken ribcage in the trash, waiting to choke a dog. I'm not a wife, I'm not a woman, I'm not a person. There is nothing worse than floating around, a breathing ghost, haunting your own living space. Death would be better than this. _

_What a good idea. _

_I'd like a turn to carve the chicken. I could pick up the purpose and become Death, carving big triangle eyes into the world. _

_What do dogs like? Bones. What do dogs do? Retrieve._

_Good dogs go fetch, but I'm not a very good dog. I'll go get the bone, but I won't give it back. The knife has teeth. Feel my bite. Grrr._

_Poor Cain. He really thinks I need to die, but he can't kill me. He wants to make sure he keeps on being nothing. He's been so good to me, I have to do something nice for him in return. I should come back and kill him. He's such an old, tired nothing, the humane thing to do would be for the scar, the Blade and I to sing the bloodshed lullaby and put him to sleep. _

_It's such a beautiful lullaby. I can hear it right now._

_Sing it with me. You know the words. They couldn't be simpler._

_Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill._


	7. Ten Forty-Three

**The story continues as Cole and Luke get better at hunting demons, and Dean, for the first time in his life, gets lost. Learn to talk smack in Latin!**

* * *

"No no, wait! I can make it up to you! Please!" pleaded the young demon with the assymetrical auburn hair.

A larger demon in a suit had her by the elbow and was shoving her down an earthen hallway. "You heard the boss, and I, for one, completely agree. You're slow, lazy and gullible. The only thing you had going for you was your viciousness, which is worthless without loyalty."

"I am loyal!" she objected. "Or, I can be!"

The larger demon chuckled. "Sorry, this is kind of a one-strike offense."

The small demon was shoved into a dark chamber, lit by one sole skylight that only illuminated one circle in the middle of the room. The door slammed heavily and the metallic click of the latch was loud as it locked.

She looked around, taking in the black. She rolled her eyes and slapped the door petulantly. "You're not even going to chain me up? You call this torture?" she yelled. "Amateur night."

A deep sound emerged from the darkness, halfway between a chuckle and a growl.

The demon sighed and turned around. "So what are you in for?"

"You don't get it," came the voice from the gloom. "This isn't torture; it's execution. But what am I in here for?" Sam stepped into the spotlight, towering over the suited demon. "I'm here for dinner." He leaned forward and sniffed her. "Mm. You smell like birthday cake."

"Sam Winchester?" The demon fell to her knees. "I submit! I am your servant, now and for always. What would you ask of me, master?"

Sam chuckled again. "Let me guess. You're here for betraying Crowley, aren't you?"

* * *

"Sir?" asked a nameless underling as Crowley watched through nightvision CCTV. Sam knocked the young demon over and ripped her neck open. "If I can ask… why such theatricality?"

"Gladiator games, Hunger Games, Gordon Ramsay's shows…" replied the king with an absent wave of his hand. "That's entertainment. Eat your popcorn."

* * *

One of the things Dean Winchester always prided himself on was his unerring sense of direction. While most Americans are vaguely aware of where the Grand Canyon or Wrigley Field are, Dean knows exactly how to get there, and exactly how far each landmark is from every other. The years of roaring down highways have taught him to imagine his world as a series of routes, and he remains comfortable navigating through and between every major metropolis.

Which is why he now feels like he's chewing through his molars. What the hell is he doing lost in Portland? He never gets freaking lost. How does this even happen?

"This phone I got has GPS," peeped Sully, cowering in Sam's shotgun seat.

"I don't need GPS," snarled Dean. "Just use the road map."

The two of them had Transanimation's address – Dean had even _been_ there before _twice_ – but still he felt like he was driving in circles. He had driven down this same, tree-lined, dedicated street six times, and still nothing looked familiar.

"What the hell? What the actual hell?" the demon demanded of no one in particular. "Where are the street signs? Why aren't these numbers in any order? We should freaking be here by now."

Sully looked at Dean, confused, then looked out at the clearly numbered buildings, and the street signs, all of which were in plain sight. _This guy's not illiterate, is he?_

Dean pulled over, stopped the car and leaned back. "Ugh, I give up," he huffed, slapping the steering wheel angrily. "The place isn't here anymore. Bitch must have moved it. I remember it used to be beside a tattoo parlour and across from a bakery."

…both of which Sully remembered having seen.

"Quit looking at me like that."

The IT guy swallowed. "Can I navigate for a while?"

Dean rolled his eyes and put the Impala back into Drive. At Sully's suggestion, he made a U-turn and drove another three minutes.

"Stop! We're here."

Dean parked, squinted out the window, then sneered at his human passenger. "Yeah, we're not trying to steal copper wire there, buddy. Look, I'll just call Crowley…"

"You don't have to!" interrupted Sully. "501 West Burnside Street, Transanimation Wellness Clinic. This is the place."

"Dude, that is a fenced-off hole surrounded by broken bricks."

Sully goggled at Dean. "What is wrong with you?" He got out of the car.

Dean followed him onto the sidewalk. "Are you thinking that maybe some…" The demon placed his hand on the chain link and nearly jumped out oh his skin when his fingers met brick. He was facing a construction site; he walked side to side and looked down into a partially-demolished cement basement. He reached out to touch the fence in front of his eyes, but what his fingers felt was a smooth glass surface.

Sully watched him in bewilderment. "This is a building. You see an empty hole?"

Dean closed his eyes and indeed made out a brick façade and a window beneath his hands. "I think I'm going crazy." His eyes snapped open in dawning realization. "It's warded. It's invisible to demons, but you can see it because you're human." He laughed in astonishment. "Am I ever glad I haven't killed you yet."

Sully stiffened, and smiled uneasily, as if he found Dean's quip funny.

Dean looked up at the building he couldn't see. "This is going to be such a pain in the ass. I have to locate and blast into this vault from memory."

* * *

Sully blustered through the doors of Transanimation. He didn't know what he was supposed to say to who, or what Dean wanted him to find out. _What kind of instruction is "just go distract whoever"? _He looked around at the glass security doors separating him from the reception area and the skinny (nerdy!) black fellow with glasses seated behind the desk. One of his own! Sully grinned and waved exuberantly.

Vandaveon frowned in suspicion, but opened the doors nonetheless. "Can I help you?"

"Hi!" began Sully. "Uh, is this the place that does the Animectomy?"

"Yeah, among other things…" replied Vandaveon.

"That's awesome! Do you guys do tours?"

Van recoiled. "No! Are you high? Why would we?"

"Because it's cool! Nobody else can do what you guys do here. Who wouldn't want to see how it's done?"

"Dude, if you're here for a tour, I got nuthin' but bad news for you. Are you thinking of getting work done? 'Cause I gotta tell you, it gets expensive."

"Really?" asked Sully. "How expensive are we talking?"

Van's answer was interrupted by a thunderous explosion from deep in the offices of the building. Van's shoulders seized in alarm and he ducked, then looked back to make sure the flannel-wearing mop-head was alright. The incredibly guilty _oh-my-stars-what-just-happened_ smile on Sully's face gave him pause.

"If this is a bad time, I can come back later," smiled Sully, keeping his face in a transparently fake-happy rictus.

Van narrowed his eyes and activated his desk phone's All-Call button. "Freddy, to reception, Stat!"

"Kay, bye!" blurted Sully before turning tail and dashing out the double-doors before Van could lock them on him.

"Why the hell don't we have warding against humans?" growled Van rhetorically as he slammed the phone down into the receiver.

"There's no such thing," replied Freddy, skidding to a stop on the parquet floor in front of the desk. "Warding against humans is just 'security'."

"Yeah, and that's you, dude! Go tackle that guy!" Van said, jabbing his hand after Sully. Freddy gave chase.

Vandaveon flicked through the security feeds and found an exterior camera with a lens covered in white spray paint. The camera's enchantments saw through the paint anyway and revealed a ladder, a duffle bag, a drill and a large piece of what appeared to be heavy artillery. Van checked his sheet of police codes and reactivated Transanimation's All-Call:

"Security breach. Section E – south examination room, Ten-Eighty, possible Four-Fifty-Nine in progress." He looked through the cameras again and tried to find the intruder to see what kind of threat they pose.

His wife's words from the night before crept back into his mind, making him smile. _"What are you doing with my book of police codes? You work at a plastic surgery clinic - why do you need to know the official way to say 'attempted arson in progress' over a radio?"_

* * *

Dean contemplated the large crater he'd made in the side of the apparently invisible building. He could see fluorescent lights at the top and bottom of the hole, and grunted angrily, realizing he'd blown a hole right between two floors. He'd done more damage to the floor and ceiling than to the exterior wall.

He took a deep breath, counted the imaginary levels of the building again and put the missile launcher back onto his shoulder. He aimed at the top of the hole he'd just made and fired another shell.

Once the dust cleared, Dean climbed the ladder, crawled through the crater and hoisted himself through the ruined floor into the examination room.

* * *

While Cole was at the hardware store buying chains and spray paint, he should have bought a fan as well. He and Luke were taking turns drawing a Devil's Trap on the floor of the storage unit Cole had rented, filling the close quarters with fumes, getting light-headed, then switching.

"I feel like I'm gonna puke," said Luke as he waved his jacket in the air.

"These fumes really knock you on your ass," agreed Cole with a cough. He gave the can of paint a shake. "I don't know how them hunters get used to it."

A few minutes after the trap was drawn and the noxious gases had dissipated, Cole closed the rolling metal door, turned on the floodlight and asked his son to turn around as he lit the candles and recited the incantation. Luke's job was to man the shotgun and the spray bottle during the interrogation.

The demon appeared with a "boompf" sound and before it could introduce itself, it looked down and saw itself trapped. "_In tui domo, pestis!_" it snapped at Cole.

"Hey. Hiya doin'?" asked Cole as he sat down in a folding chair outside the Devil's Trap. "I've got some questions for you."

"_Tui mater est mus et pater acinos olet!_"

Cole held his hand out to Luke, who gave him the spray bottle. "In English," he commanded.

"_Id diu suge, enixe suge,_" replied the demon snottily.

"I don't think I like your tone, friend," said Cole as he casually sprayed the demon, who sizzled, dodged and hissed. "ENGLISH. Do you speak it?"

"Yes, fine, yes!"

"Good kitties speak English, bad kitties," Cole waggled the bottle of holy water, "speak Italian. Do you understand?"

"It's Latin, you cretin," spat the demon, to which Cole raised the bottle. The demon raised its hands. "Fine! Fine, I'll play ball."

"First of all, it's nice to meet you. I'm Cole. What's your name?"

"Deion Sanders, that's my name. What is this?"

"How long have you been a demon?"

The demon blinked its red eyes back to their brown human form and gave Cole a perplexed look. "Did you summon me here so you could interview me?"

"That's right." Cole crossed his legs and leaned back. "So you speak Latin, you must be pretty old. When did you die?"

The demon crossed its arms. "1821."

"When did Dean Winchester die?"

"2008, I think. 2009? I'm not sure."

Cole stood up. "What? How long does it take someone to become a demon?"

"Depends. You? About three weeks and I bet you'd crack."

Cole sneered and squirted the bottle. He picked up a printed image of the Winchesters' Demon Blade and shoved it at the demon. "Where do I get one of these?"

The demon smirked. "Kurdistan. You may need a time machine."

"Tell me how to make one."

"Do I look like a medieval Kurd to you?"

Luke piped up. "Where is Dean Winchester buried?"

"Is this your boy?"

"Answer the question," ordered Cole.

"Smart kid." The demon craned past the marine to look at Luke. "Your daddy is in way over his head. Tell him he's wasting his time." It looked back at Cole. "Tell him that there's nothing in the playbook that'll help him kill Big Dean. That is who you're after, isn't it?"

"Nothing?" asked Luke. "Not even the Colt?"

The demon sat down serenely, as if the Devil's Trap on the concrete floor were a comfortable plush carpet. "No darling, not even the Colt. Not even if you were able to track it down."

"What can?" asked Cole, holding the bottle at the ready.

"He will beat it out of you," added Luke.

"No, he won't."

"Torture doesn't get you useful information," said Cole to Luke.

"Torture is its own reward," said the demon, licking its lips lecherously. After a beat, 'Deion Sanders' continued. "I'm only going to tell you this because knowing it is just going to make your life harder: Dean is a Knight of Hell. He's the only one, and the only thing that can kill a Knight is another Knight. Catch 22."

"You're full of it," said Cole.

"He's the wielder of the only weapon that can hurt him," replied the demon smarmily, adding with a shrug "_si essem facilis, tui mater essem._"

"English," barked Cole.

"_Te in infernam vistam,_" added the demon, spitting at Cole.

Cole wiped the demonic saliva off his lapel. "Have it your way. You like Latin? Here's your damn Latin." He picked up another printout and began to read. "Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus turpes immunde, in nomine…"

The demon crouched and clamped its hands over its ears. "Stop! Please!" it screamed and retreated from Cole.

Cole continued, speaking louder. "Patris omnipotentas, et in nominee…"

The demon shook its head. "No! It's horrible!" It opened its eyes and noticed that Cole had stepped into the red painted circle. "Your pronunciation! It's just ghastly!" It swiftly stood up and yanked the paper out of Cole's hand. It burst into flames in its fingers.

The demon punched Cole in the chin and grabbed him by the lapel. "I'm really sorry you didn't start in with the slicy-slicy. I'd love to see what you're made of."

Cole swung at the demon with his left hand but it caught him by the wrist and squeezed. "_Te compara verberibus clunis_." Just as Cole feared his bone would snap, the demon stopped squeezing, interrupted by the sound of Luke's voice.

"Sancti ut descendas ad hoc plasmate," continued Luke, scrunching his eyes as he struggled to remember. "Dei… quod Domine noster… ad… templus… crap."

The demon laughed. "Good hustle, champ. A for effort."

Cole elbowed the demon, who retaliated by elbowing him back viciously, and with much more force. Cole stumbled but didn't leave the circle. The demon smiled and shook out its shoulders, then drew its toe along a horizontal, spray-painted line. "_Hoc lingue transgredi. Te provoco._"

Cole got to his feet and put up his dukes. He'd be damned if he was going to die on the ground, least of all in front of his son.

Another voice pierced the air, speaking in confident, rapid-fire Latin.

"Omnis incursio adversarii, omne phantasma, omnis legio, in nomine Domine nostri Jesu Christi eradicare," came the voice from Luke's phone, which the boy held in the air like a beacon.

The demon's legs buckled and it cringed helpless as the Ritulae Romanum read, pulling at it. "Is that Sam Winchester?" was all the demon could say before its insides seized and it burst in a purposeful cloud of rosy red smoke which swirled forcefully under the rolling door of the storage unit.

"Dad, are you okay?" asked Luke in an embarrassingly shrill voice. The boy cleared his throat.

Cole frowned, winced and flexed his left hand. "Yeah, I'm okay."

"I need to work on my Latin," said Luke.

"You did great. _I_ need to work on my Latin." He rolled his shoulder. "I can't wait until we work up to finally killing one of those damned things."

"How are we going to do that? We didn't learn anything."

Cole walked over to the picture of the Demon Blade. "That. The demon said that there were more than one. We can get one. We'll scour antique shops…"

"You wanna give up on the Colt?"

"The Colt needs reloading. And then, what if you miss? You're out a bullet. No, a knife is better. Can you load that Latin thing onto my phone, too?"

"Sure, no problem. But maybe you and I should memorize it too. Just in case."

Cole inhaled and nodded. "Did you catch any of what that evil bitch was saying?"

"Not really. Something about mom, I think. Nothing good."

"I'm really going to enjoy killing a demon."

* * *

Abacad sat in the recovery room, leaning forward, rubbing her temples and trying to calculate probabilities. She was either being attacked by a professional rival (unlikely, but not impossible), or some manner of supernatural being. It seems like the whole world wants the _rooh_ of Sam Winchester, and she had never been gladder that she'd moved it elsewhere.

If it's his brother attacking the clinic, how effective would the safety measures be – especially against the monstrous weapon of ruin he wields? All the warding in the clinic was preventative; the whole place was covered in Devil's Traps, including on the lining of Abacad's lab coat, but there exists no combatative measures. What can one do against a demon that's already breached the perimeter? Anything? What weapons are even effective against such a creature?

Abacad wished she had something –anything!- to defend herself with. Even something as silly as that old fairy tale daeva-slayer her brother Reza had given her would make her feel better, but alas it was still on the wall at her condo.

_Maybe it's not too late to speak to the intruder_, she thought. _I am the face of this clinic. What example does it set to cower while others are in danger? If I fail to gird myself for the engagement, why should anyone else rise to the threat?_ She must at least make an effort.

Her fingers went to her two necklaces: the blue glass choker from Sandeep and her Ahura Mazda pendant. _Give me strength_. She opened the door and walked into the hallway.

Another nearby door opened and through a cloud of dust and rubble stepped Dean Winchester, his dark scowl made all the darker by his black eyes. They found the surgeon and he advanced with malicious determination.

Abacad panicked, seized with outrage and – _come to think of it _\- anger. She stepped backwards. She had no weapon, her hands were empty, but she felt like throttling the demon. _How DARE you trespass? You think you can just barge in here and take whatever you please? Who do you think you are, boy?_ She could feel her face turn red.

"_Borobemir ahmagh!" _she scolded angrily, slashing a hand dismissively through the air.

Dean's feet flew out from under him and he flipped into a comical pratfall, as if he'd just slipped on an invisible banana peel. He landed hard and flat on his back.

Abacad quickly whisked off her lab coat and draped it over the demon on the floor as he was getting up onto his elbow.

His shoulders hit the floor with another 'klunk'. His muscles froze up, cramped, inert and useless. "Ugh! You…" He struggled but her coat pinned him to the floor. He couldn't even move his arms or legs. "You wear a lead lab coat?" Dean leaned back and spotted the swirling red pattern from the reception counter on the coat's lining. He could feel his lungs struggle to inhale, his muscles locked in place by Abacad's 'devil's flypaper'. "How long have you been wearing that?"

"Since Mister Crowley's first visit," she replied, in barely recognizable English. Her hands were trembling. "It's the best I have until I'm able to successfully prevent bodily possession. I don't wish to threaten my staff."

"Heh," said Dean, looking at the ceiling. "Sometimes the best laid plans aren't worth beans, huh?" He thought of his own anti-possession tattoo. "Charlie could have told you that."

Abacad looked down at the prone Knight of Hell with no idea of what she should do with him. Come to think of it, the hacker may have some suggestions. The doctor strode toward reception.

_Huh,_ thought Dean as her feet walked past him and away. _She wears cowboy boots to work._

* * *

Abacad found in reception her enormous orderly/security guard serving a cup of green tea to a bruised twenty-something lad in a flannel shirt whose wrists were flex-cuffed together behind his back. Maritza and Vandaveon were murmuring to each other behind the desk, glancing periodically at Freddy and Sully.

The surgeon took in the scene. "Fred, how is he supposed to drink tea with his hands tied? Honestly."

The orderly nodded and lifted the steaming cup up Sully's face.

"No wait! Too hot! Not yet!" objected the IT guy.

"Go on, Fred," said Van. "I think it's time for tea. He can handle it."

"Vandaveon, would you please retrieve the gurney and meet Maritza and I in the hallway?" asked Abacad.

Abacad and Maritza hoisted Dean's shoulders while Van lifted his ankles, and with the gurney they carried him into the operating room. The three then lifted him onto the surgery table where he remained pinned as Abacad excused herself to phone the diminutive, redheaded hacker.

Van and Maritza were joined by Freddy and their three forms cast long shadows over Dean. All he could do from where he lay was frown and swear.

"Fine! You caught me! What the hell happens now?" asked Dean with angry impotence.

Maritza put a hand on his arm, which he would have snatched away if he'd been able to move. "You seem upset. Would you like us to call someone? Your boyfriend, perhaps?"

Van made a face and shook his head at Maritza.

"You people are all crazy!" snapped Dean, getting slightly frightened at the prospect of being at the mercy of these benign weirdos. "What are you gonna do to me?"

Freddy bent at the waist, coming eye to eye with the prone demon. Dean flinched. "Would you like some tea?" asked the orderly softly in his thunderous and chilling baritone.

* * *

Abacad pulled her cellphone out of her pocket, wandered back into reception and dialled Charlie. The number was ringing as she noticed Sully facedown on the floor between the sofa and the coffee table, struggling to crawl toward the door. Abacad put her phone on the table, sat down and lifted Sully back into a sitting position on the couch beside her. She picked her phone back up and continued listening to its ringing, smiling and patting Sully's shoulder. She raised her eyebrows and pointed interrogatively at his teacup.

Sully shook his head.

"Hullo?"

The doctor quickly stood up. "Miss Bra'bury, hello. This is Behrooz Abacad. I'm afraid I have another favor to ask."

Charlie let out a syllable of laughter. "The last time I did you a favor, it was my best-paying job ever. What do you need, Doc? I'm still in town."

"When did you last see your brother Dean?"

"He's not actually my…" Charlie stopped herself. "Why?"

"I have him on my table and I'm at a loss as to how to proceed."

"Why is he on your table? Your operating table?" asked Charlie. "What are you going to do with him?"

Abacad looked down to Sully, who had been watching her warily the whole time. "I don't know," she answered with more venom than she'd intended. Sully cringed, acutely getting the feeling that he was peeking through the veneer of the clinic's civility. He shuddered, feeling deeply unsettled.

"Don't do anything," said Charlie, her unease resonating similarly. "I'll be right there."

"Many thanks," said the doctor, before hanging up. She sat back down on the sofa beside Sully, who'd scrunched himself up as close to the arm as he could. Still, he shrunk further to the side and away from Abacad.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"You could have made that call from your office," began Sully, guardedly. "Why did you want me to hear that?"

Abacad softened. "I didn't," she replied, waving her phone in the air absently. "Our security system conflicted with our wireless telephone service, and this is the only place in the building that gets a signal."

Sully pondered a moment, then smiled despite himself. "The only place you can get reception… is in reception?"

Abacad chortled appreciatively. She stood up. "So it would seem. Please enjoy your tea. It won't stay warm forever."

She turned and walked back to the operating room.

Sully contemplated his challenge and perched on his knees in front of the coffee table, and carefully tilted the cup with his lips. He slurped and coughed.

* * *

BONUS: Translations

Police Codes:

10-80 Explosion

459 Burglary

10-43 (The Chapter's Title) Call a Doctor

Farsi:

"Borobemir ahmagh." – "Go get killed, you idiot!" (Rough translation)

Latin:

"In tui domo, pestis" – "A pox on your house"

"Tui mater est mus et pater acinos olet!" – "Your mother was a hamster and your father smelled of elderberries." (Rough translation)

"Id diu suge, enixe suge" – "Suck it long, suck it hard."

"Si essem facilis, tui mater essem." – "If it were easy, it'd be your mom."

"Te in infernam vistam." – "See you in Hell."

"Te compara verberibus clunis." – "Get ready for an ass-whooping. (Roughly)

"Hoc lingue transgredi. Te provoco." – "Step over this line. I dare you."

_I had the Latin trashtalk project in the works long before I wrote this story. You know, just in case I got kidnapped by Satanists or a demon or something. I'm so glad I finally got a chance to use it!_

Sandeep Nahali is Doctor Abacad's husband.

It turns out, the Transanimation Wellness Clinic is right around the corner from the Keep Portland Weird sign. _(I don't live in Portland, and I picked the address arbitrarily. But when I was researching the location for the Dean Gets Lost scene, I used Google Streetview and found that pleasant surprise. I think it's kind of poetically fitting.)_


	8. Enhanced Interrogation

**The story continues as Abacad contemplates getting revenge on Dean, Crowley reveals his inner grammar Nazi and we finally meet Sandeep, the doctor's husband.**

* * *

"_Out, damned spot – out I say!" ~ Lady MacBeth, Act 5, Scene 1_

* * *

"I know the drill here," sighed the summoned demon standing in the Devil's Trap. "You want me to spill my guts about demon killing."

"Nope," replied Cole casually, "this here is an experiment. You're going to suffer for science" He folded his arms and leaned against the corrugated metal wall of the storage container. "Ain't that noble?"

"Why do you say 'in-wo-cado'?" sneered the demon. "Are you Russian or something?"

Cole looked at Luke, who made a face. "That's what my textbook said the pronunciation was like," offered the boy. "Is Classical Latin not the way to go?"

"I'm not Roman, and neither are you, smallfry," replied the demon scornfully.

Luke squirted a water gun at the demon, who writhed and smoked.

"Thank you sir, may I have another?" roared the demon, clearly in pain, but relishing the fruitlessness of the boy's efforts.

Cole shook his head at his son and scolded him quietly, "it's no use."

The demon snort-laughed at Cole. "He's right. Torturing a demon? What are you, new? I _just_ came from Hell. Your world is Club frigging Med. What am I gonna do, complain that the Mai Tais aren't very sweet? Use your head. There's nothing you could do to me that I haven't already been through before, worse, longer… while being blasted with remixed Slim Whitman hits. So go ahead, do your worst. I dare you. It'll be funny."

The demon grunted as Luke splashed it again.

Luke smiled and shrugged. To his father, he added, "it felt good."

Cole frowned, shook his head, pulled the water gun out of his son's hand and pointed to the corner of the storage container. "Go stand over there. Learn something."

Luke resentfully did as he was told and took in the scene with a silent glower.

Cole turned the metal folding chair around and sat backwards on it, leaning against the backrest. He faced the demon, just staring, blinking slowly and projecting utmost calm.

The demon returned his gaze, raising its eyebrows and taking a deep breath. "Take your time. I'm not going anywhere."

The silence between them lingered. Cole nodded thoughtfully and the demon shifted its weight, looking around, uncomfortable. "What?" Cole simply smiled and shrugged in reply.

Luke was confused. What was going on? _We're supposed to pump this creature for information. What is anyone getting out of this? No one is saying anything._ He was seized with the compulsion to step in and exorcize the damned thing, and he was about to chime in and say as much, but he froze when his father opened his mouth.

He watched as the demon froze as well.

Cole took a breath, smiled as if he were about to tell a joke, then stopped.

Luke hung on every second. It was agonizing. The silence that hung in the room was stuffy, thunderous and oppressive.

The marine was in total control of the situation.

"Look, I'm not going to beat around the bush here," began Cole deliberately. Luke remarked that the demon look relieved that someone had said something. That relief disappeared when Cole continued.

"You're screwed. I mean that. Your existence as you knew it is over. You got only one of two things in your future: the shaft or the jar. There ain't no winnin' here, not for you. You ain't never goin' home. You gotta know that. I'm here to help you make the best of a bad situation. So either you don't cooperate… and I kill you…"

Cole picked up a clay jar and looked at it pensively. "…or you do cooperate… and you live to fight another day."

The demon chirped, then cleared its throat. Luke was fascinated by its transformation – all its swagger was gone, its shoulder had started to slump, its eyes looked a bit misty and overall the demon appeared completely defeated. "What happens if I cooperate?" it asked loudly, trying not to seem timid.

"We exorcize you," said Cole to the jar. He looked up at the demon. "You live, that poor meatsuit lives, no broken bones, no problems. Everybody's happy."

The demon looked at the Devil's Trap, the walls of the shipping container and finally at the marine. Cole awaited his reply, his expression neutral. The demon saw no malice, no apparent subterfuge, no emotion of any kind. The guy hadn't told a single lie, and seemed to genuinely not care whether or not the demon helped him. Honesty like this was refreshing.

"What was this experiment you mentioned?"

* * *

Abacad took her time opening the door and joining the demon in the operating room. She deliberately and quietly shut the door behind her. She looked Dean in the eye and held his gaze as she lifted her examination glasses on their chain, unfolded their arms and put them on.

"Hey, it's Doctor Sexy, MD," said Dean, hoping to sound casual. "What's up, Doc?"

"I know what you are. I can see you."

Dean slumped back. "Great. Awesome." He tried to raise his head. "Okay, I'm sorry I broke into your place…"

"You smashed a hole in the wall. With explosives."

"Will you let me finish?"

"It's clear to me how meaningless all your apologies are," interrupted Abacad. "As I said I can see you…". She touched his right elbow, then his sternum. "…and this. I know what it is. I can see the grand destruction in your future. I can see the scale of the butchery you'd bring. You are a monumentally fearsome weapon, Mister Winchester. And it brings me great, great amusement to see you here now, on my table, completely helpless."

Dean stiffened and tried to begin to struggle. His limbs were dead.

Abacad continued. "Am I right in understanding that it was you that asked Mister Crowley to ask me to remove your brother's soul?"

"Oh. Yeah. I guess. I wasn't sure how he was…"

"Quiet," she commanded. The Knight obeyed. The doctor seethed, then snarled through her teeth, uncaring whether or not her words were heard. "You didn't care about anything but your own interests. You… forced me to… soul-rape your brother. Your own brother. I violated him so profoundly that there simply are not words. I have never done anything like that. I pride myself on my integrity. In my line of work, all I have is my ethics; my respect for the will of others. I was forced to compromise everything I am… everything I care most about… because of you."

"Yeah, but see," interjected Dean, "I'm trying to fix all that. I'm here to get his soul back so I can put it right back in, just like before." As an afterthought, he added, "and I'm sorry about that, by the way."

Abacad gripped his chin angrily. "Stop apologizing. You have no idea what the word 'sorry' means, you corrupt and worthless wretch."

"Sorry," burbled the demon lamely.

Abacad reeled, spinning on her heel in a tight circle. It seemed to Dean that the air around her rippled with the doctor's rage. "Sam is your brother. You grew up beside him; I know how much you love him. You had me defile and vandalize the core of his being… on impulse?"

The air rippled again. Dean's chest seized with dread.

"You are the most miserable degenerate I can imagine. You deserve all the hate and punishment in the world. I hope you are crushed from above by a terrible force, and that you live long enough to feel your own bones pulverize and grind together under its boot heel."

She leaned in close to his face and sneered, _"Azat motenafferam."_

As Abacad spoke the words, Dean felt as though he were walking face first through a hailstorm. His cheeks, nose, chin and forehead were sheared with the pain of a thousand needles pelting his face like icy wind.

Dean panted and stared fretfully at the doctor, who loomed over him like a hungry wolf.

Abacad thought back to performing the animectomy; cracking open her patients' sternums and pulling out their _rooh._ She looked at her hand and wondered if she really needed all her medical equipment for the procedure. Out of curiosity, Abacad casually plunged her arm elbow-deep into Dean's chest and grabbed at the swirling smoky mess that was his soul.

Dean could feel her fingers fishing around in his perverted being with her acute and scrupulous humanity, and the disparity was agonizing. The painful tendrils of everything he used to be waded through his centre and lit up his being with shame and shortcoming.

Abacad's fingers grasped Dean's demon soul.

The pain racked him. He screamed.

He screamed in grief for the life he'd left, the brother he'd failed, the world he'd abandoned, all the beauty he'd have happily smashed.

Abacad could feel Dean's suffering soul squirm in her hand like a whipping, thrashing eel. She relished his agony, the tears rolling down his crow's feet into his hair. His stubbly cheeks stretched into a rictus of anguish – anguish he so richly deserved.

She squeezed her fist, wrenching his being. _Feel…shame. Feel regret. Feel all the guilt that I carry, having done what you bade me. Let this stain sear you._

"Maybe she's in the bathroom," came Charlie's voice from the doorway as she let herself into the OR, calling down the hallway. "I just want to check on…"

Abacad pulled her arm out of the demon, leaving his chest intact.

"…Dean."

Dean bleated, his face damp and crimson. He choked and gulped air.

"Thank you for coming so quickly," Abacad said coolly. "You made excellent time."

Charlie looked at the abject, teary misery on her friend's face. Though she could see no injury, he was clearly in pain. She stepped forward. "What did you do? Get away from him!" She shoved the doctor aside.

Dean closed his eyes and shook his head. "I can't… I just can't." He sniffed his running nose loudly.

"I'm so sorry I didn't get here sooner," Charlie told him.

"You are a confused ball of furious blurry rage," scolded the doctor breathlessly. "The world doesn't need you."

"I know." He opened his eyes and looked past Charlie to Abacad. "I can't do this anymore. I don't want to be this. Please help me."

Abacad looked down on his tears and pleading with contempt. She pursed her lips and muttered "_Bache-naneh._"

Dean continued. "I feel like I'm on fire. I'm pissed off all the time. It's exhausting. I can't do it anymore. I don't know how anyone could. I don't want to be angry anymore, but I don't know how to stop. You said you can remove the Mark? I need you to do it. Otherwise I'm gonna… I'm gonna end up killing Sam."

Charlie gasped.

Abacad regarded him dispassionately, and after a pause she raised her hands and began clapping slowly. "What a loss to the stage you are, Mister Winchester. Bravo. Bravo." She stopped clapping. "Spare me your _ashke-temsah_. You're not fooling anyone."

Charlie gawked at Abacad. "How can you be such a stone cold…"

"My mistake," said Abacad, cutting her off. "It seems that you do have one person fooled. You don't give a toss what happens to your brother."

"Yes I do! I've been trying…"

"_Chert-o-pairt!_" boomed Abacad. "Keep your tears, keep your excuses and keep your Mark. After all, you need it to absolve yourself. If I were to remove it, on what would you blame your own behaviour then?"

Dean leaned back and looked despairingly at the ceiling, offering no answer.

"I can't believe you're just lying there taking this," said Charlie.

Abacad turned over a corner of the lab coat revealing the devil's trap pattern.

"Why _are_ you lying there? How did she overpower you?"

"I saw him slip in the hallway," answered Abacad. "I trapped him while he was supine."

"I did _not_ slip," snapped Dean, "because I'm not a freaking klutz. She hexed me."

Charlie looked accusingly at Abacad, who scoffed. "No, I didn't."

"You said something in Latin or whatever and I wiped out. That's called a spell."

"Don't be ridiculous. I called you an idiot in Persian," replied Abacad scornfully. "You clumsiness is no fault of mine."

"Right. I'm sure when _I _swear at people, it feels like an ice storm, too."

"What are you talking about?"

"Doctor Abacad, what were you doing when I walked in here?" asked Charlie.

Dean turned to her. "Dude, you have got to get me away from here. From her. She's, like, a witch or something."

"And he's 'like, a bomb, or something'," countered Abacad to the hacker. "I'm not the dangerous one here. I'm not the one who blows things up to get my way."

"He needs your help."

"He doesn't deserve my help," spat Abacad. "All we can do is neutralize him."

"What?" said Charlie.

"Fine," said Dean, to Abacad's astonishment. "Whatever keeps me from hurting anyone else. Because I know I will. Do what you gotta do."

The doctor frowned critically at the demon through the glasses. She slowly raised her eyebrows, but remained wary. "You _agree_ to remain inert until we find a solution?" she asked skeptically.

"Consent is really important to her," added Charlie.

Dean nodded.

Abacad's apprehension was obvious, but she softened.

"I really didn't just slip," Dean said quietly to Charlie. "I don't know what she is, but I don't think you should trust her. I don't."

The surgeon sighed. "Miss Bra'bury, I hate to ask you to choose sides, and I know how much you care for this… man. But rest assured, he is a much bigger problem than I am." She took off her glasses and allowed them to dangle on their chain. "If only you could see what your friend has become."

"Please don't!" blurted Dean as Charlie objected.

"That's okay!"

Abacad looked from the demon to the hacker and decided that she couldn't trust the redhead not to pull off the warded lab coat. "Alright. Mister Winchester, spot foul, fifteen yard penalty. Your friend and I are going to regroup in reception. Come with me. Charlie. I understand that Freddy made tea."

* * *

Cole and Luke had introduced a new drill to their training: recitation of the exorcism rite. They both knew it backwards and forwards, and were now starting to expand its capabilities.

Luke had the idea of trapping disembodied demons in warded glass vessels and after a few tries, the man and his son were met with resounding success. The dollar-store jars were easily stoppered and once imprisoned, the demon wasn't going anywhere. The possessed person even survived and the demon didn't go back into circulation.

Cole and Luke's modus operandi became to summon crossroads and enforcer demons just to exorcize and trap them, and they were prolific enough that their efforts were noticed as a manpower deficit in the Pit.

"Why are all my field agents having a meeting in a warehouse in Nebraska?" asked Crowley irritably, looking at his map of the continental United States. "If I have to stamp out another bunch of Abaddon loyalists, I'm not going to be pleased." _Not that doing so isn't a pleasure in and of itself._

"I don't believe they _are_ having a meeting, my liege," answered a suited underling. "They all left for Earth on work visas and never returned. We believe they may be trapped."

"Very well. You, take Vincent and the big guy and go retrieve them." The suit flinched, turning to move then turning back to the King. "Something on your mind, bootlick?" prodded Crowley.

"Not that I'm not happy to undertake this task," began the underling, prompting Crowley to raise his fingers threateningly, "but before we expend this manpower, perhaps you could simply contact warehouse's proprietress."

Crowley lowered his hand and leaned forward. "And who might that be?"

"Well, we can't be sure, but who do we know that likes to horde disembodied spirits in a storage unit?" said the underling, nervously. "If the King would be so kind as to have a word with his… consort…" He trailed off.

Crowley scowled at the demon, propping his face on his hand, mashing his cheek and allowing his servant's implication to hang in the air, untouched. Finally he asked with considerable prickliness, "Yes? What then? I'm waiting for the apodasis of your sentence." The underling stammered, scrambling for a diplomatic way to posit his point.

"Allow me to demonstrate for you how conditional sentences work," continued Crowley, clearing his throat. "_If _you, or any other snivelling devil ever bring up any 'consort' of mine again, _then_ you _will_ be fed to the Winchester. The surgeon is no concern of ours and she will not be interfered with. Do I make myself clear?"

The underling nodded emphatically and made to leave. "Sorry sir, which 'big guy' would you have me take?"

"You know, him with the chin," Crowley waggled his fingers curtly. "Run along."

_Ugh, another day in Hell and the sky rains problems,_ thought Crowley. He did indeed phone Doctor Abacad within the hour, but the number claimed to be out of service. Oh well. Something to mention to her the next time they meet.

* * *

_There are things that make the world seem big and others that make the world seem small. When you have nothing and are all alone, the external world seems huge and cavernous, and looms over you like a magnifying glass over an ant. If you have a purpose, the world seems snug and cosy. If you're missing something and searching for it, everything stretches out around you to keep you from what you seek. But if you know where it is, all that separates you from it is your own will._

_If you have purpose and will, if you know what you're looking for and where it is, then space will shrink and the world will become small and your target will glow before you, like a glimmer in the dark._

_The walk, the journey doesn't matter. It's a blur and I barely remember it. My feet brought me to the dented black muscle car, which pointed to the ladder, which then pointed to the hole. Climb me, said the ladder. Crawl through, said the hole. I followed the arrows and found Dean with black eyes. Such a pretty butterfly pinned alive to a collector's mat. Oh, he certainly wasn't smiling then._

_He looked at me like an ant looks at a magnifying glass. _

_This must be how he felt when I was on the rack and he looked at me._

_Now I know why he smiled._

_Oh what fun. I can't help but smile too._

"I didn't think I'd ever see you again."

"I know."

"…you look good."

"The artist admires his sculpture."

Dean hadn't thought about it like that. He regarded her more critically. "Do you feel like a different animal?" _ It hadn't been his intention, but wouldn't Alastair be proud?_ "If this is a revenge mission, I'm not in the mood, so just take a num…"

"You have something of mine," interrupted Buttercup.

"It's on my To-Do List. You'll get it back soon enough."

"Not soon enough." Buttercup rolled up her right sleeve.

The look on her face startled Dean. He would have expected anger, rage, vengeance… anything hotter than the empty chill he saw permeate the broken blonde woman in front of him. As the fluorescent light from the supply cabinet fell across her face, he spotted the stain of a curse on her brow. Dean cringed in shock. "What's that on your forehead?"

Buttercup smiled and grabbed his right forearm with her dominant hand.

He could feel the Mark on his elbow squirm, burn and slither toward her hand. "Wait-wait, stop! You don't know what you're doing!"

"Sh-sh-sh," she breathed serenely, patting his chest gently. With her other hand, her grip tightened.

His veins lit up with an angry sizzle and the Mark of Cain slid down his arm onto Buttercup's glowing hand.

"Amanda, that's your name, right? Amanda, listen to me. You don't want this. Trust me. It will crush you."

Buttercup wasn't paying him any mind, instead humming blissfully to herself as the Mark crawled up her arm and settled on her inner elbow. She nodded in time with the tune. Dean's ear followed, the song seeming strangely familiar.

"Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill…" whispered Buttercup, letting go of Dean's arm and flexing her right hand. She admired the Mark.

A great tension suddenly unknotted from Dean's chest and neck. He didn't realize how tight he'd been carrying his muscles until all at once they released. He looked back at Amanda, and she was still singing that imaginary lullaby to herself. "How do you know that song?"

"The scar-Cain sings it to me," answered Buttercup, gesturing idly to her left eye. "I used to hate it, but now it's my favorite song." She glanced around the room. "Where's my knife?"

"Not here. Okay, look, you have every right to be mad at me…"

Buttercup quickly hit Dean hard in the throat, silencing him. "That's right. Tell me more about what I feel. I'm not angry with you. And I'm not going to kill you. You don't deserve it." Buttercup patted his chest and turned to leave.

Despite being unable to stop the armed nuclear warhead from wandering out into the world, Dean felt as though a great weight had just lifted from his shoulders. The stress that had been clenching his chest and constricting his breathing for the better part of a year was gone. He lay back on the padded table and took a deep breath. He turned toward his former victim. "Thank you."

Buttercup walked away without turning around, and closed the door behind her.

* * *

"What the hell does that mean, 'neutralize him'?" prodded Charlie as she clumsily followed the doctor to reception, afraid of her question's answer.

"My first impulse?" mused the doctor, looking from Van to Maritza, Sully to Freddy and back to Charlie. "Extract Dean's _rooh. _Pull his entire being out of his body, put it into a jar, leaving an empty husk which can hurt no one."

"Then what do we do with his body?" asked Maritza.

"Woodchipper?" suggested Freddy.

Abacad shook her head and waved her hand dismissively as Charlie stared speechless at the orderly, jaw agape.

Sully wriggled against his tied hands and wondered how much force it would take to just smash through the glass wall with his body.

"We are not going to woodchipper anybody!" squawked Charlie. Then she whirled and pointed a finger at Freddy. "And _he_ doesn't get a vote about this."

"It was just an idea," said Freddy.

"I vote that you remove the Mark of Cain," said Charlie.

"What's the Mark of Cain?" asked Freddy.

"I thought I could, but now I'm less certain," replied Abacad, running a hand through her short hair. "It's part of him and even if I separate it from his _rooh_, it will still exist. I think perhaps it must; it appears to be a permanent fixture. I believe it's locking something in place."

"You!" said Vandaveon turning to Sully and seizing his shoulders. Sully had been hoping that the staff had started to forget he was there – especially Van, who'd seemed particularly bitter and wrathful since the explosion. "You're on his side," continued the receptionist, shaking him emphatically. "Where did he get the Mark of Cain?!"

Sully shrunk and shrugged fretfully. "Um, from… Cain?" he offered, hoping that he wouldn't get yelled at or slapped again.

"Do you think he'd be willing to take it back?" piped up Maritza. Charlie gasped and the Pischtacco continued. "If Dean was given this Mark by a man, perhaps we could simply return it to that same man."

"Oh my god, of course!" gushed Van. "Where can we find Cain?" he growled at Sully.

"How the hell would I know?"

Abacad clapped twice, relaxing visibly. "Wonderful, we have a plan. Vandaveon, please do your utmost to locate this Cain. The boy on the couch will help you."

"Aw, come on…" moaned Van and Sully in unison.

"Don't argue with me," replied Abacad without anger and they both fell silent.

Sully hunched. Apparently Abacad was his boss now. Okay.

"Maritza, would you please fetch a dolly and some duct tape from maintenance?" continued the surgeon. "I'll see if Mister Winchester might assist in our hunt for this Mister Caine."

"I'm coming with you, Doc," interjected Charlie. "I don't trust you not to smack Dean around. I'll supervise your interrogation."

Abacad shrugged assent, then turned to the large orderly. "Freddy, would you please tend to the building's damage, to the best of your ability? Block the hole, remove the ladder, gather any explosives?"

Freddy nodded, then added, "is it too late to suggest that we wrap that guy in Flypaper and throw him down a well or something?"

"Yes!" snapped Charlie.

"We'll call that Plan B, shall we?" Abacad replied encouragingly.

* * *

Sandeep Nahali shot his cuffs. He had finally decided on the steel-grey suit, the raspberry necktie and the Tennessee Texans blue shirt (wouldn't his wife be proud?). If he stood up straight, he looked like a million bucks – the rich, cosmopolitan (plastic) surgeon he was. If he slouched, he looked like a wealthy meathead working in programming, which was still pretty good. He nodded to the mirror.

Niall and Mark would be there soon for some cocktails before they met up with Isaac and what's-her-name at the bar. Sandeep had bought some rail vodka to make cocktails with, but he was really hoping his friends would give his Russian sipping vodka a try. The Absolut was in the freezer but the special stuff was in the ice bucket, and he'd be damned if he was going to let them make seabreezes with it.

Fitting a vodka bottle into a freezer isn't particularly easy; the horizontal shape of freezers don't lend themselves to the fitting of tall objects upright, and it's hard to put them on their sides without them rolling out and onto the floor. It didn't make it any easier that Behrooz had brought one of her disgusting rotting specimens home for storage. _What the hell was wrong with her own damn freezer?_

Sandeep really didn't care for her whole side of the business, what with the witches and demons and soulless corporate sharks. It was all a bit too dark for his liking but that's where the real money was, it seemed. Knowing that he and his spouse have each others' backs, both professionally and personally always makes him feel better, but whenever Sandeep saw something like these slimy living slugs, he couldn't help but feel like a mob wife.

Good thing a vodka bottle fits just as well in the freezer door.

"Mark, I'm sure your eyebrows look fine," said Niall with an irritable knock on the bathroom door. "Other people need to get in there."

"Why don't you just use the bathroom in Rooz' apartment?" said Sandeep, handing his friend a cocktail. "It's through this door, and down the hall, on the right."

"Won't she mind?" asked Niall.

"No, it's fine. Just don't spill anything while you're over there."

Niall swayed. "Don't worry, I'll take very good care of your beard's precious…"

Sandeep gently took the glass out of his hand.

"Oh, I see how it is," said Niall petulantly as he walked though the door into Abacad's apartment.

Sandeep checked his phone for any notifications that the plan had changed and heard from next door a scuffle, a stumble and a thump. He smiled. _Aren't Irish guys supposed to be able to hold their liquor?_ "Niall, are you okay baby?" he called over. "I can't give you back to Chris bruised. He'll have my ass."

Niall walked back into Sandeep's foyer, standing very tall and looking very purposeful and clear-eyed. "Yes… baby. I'm fine." He took the glass out of Sandeep's hand and drained it in a single gulp. "Mm. You make a mighty fine Mai Tai."

Sandeep looked at his friend sideways, very glad he had mixed the drink with rail vodka. "That was a cosmo, but thank you."

"Whatever," he answered as he plunked the glass down on the counter clumsily. "I'll have another, if you don't mind."

"Sure," said Sandeep, making a mental note to go heavy on the juice this time. It`s never good to get sloppy before they even get to the club. He opened the freezer as Mark came out of the bathroom.

Niall spotted the specimen jar and froze, narrowing his eyes.

"Alright, I think I have achieved perfection," said Mark, breezing into the kitchen and heading straight toward the cocktail near the blender. He looked at the hungry expression on Niall's face, then at Sandeep. "Is everything okay?"

Niall smiled and revealed black eyes. He shoved Sandeep aside and seized the freezer door. He took a moment to marvel at the animus of Sam Winchester and grabbed it.

Sandeep had heard of this. He splashed the drink he'd made for Mark at the demon – a salt-rimmed Margarita.

The demon laughed. "Hell help me, this was even easier than I thought it was going to be. Like taking candy from an incredibly gay baby." He smiled and regarded the jar in his hand, but his smile vanished as some grains of salt, stuck in the sugary drink began to sizzle and burn his cheek. The demon slapped at the corrosive and fumbled the soul jar, which slipped out of his grip.

The jar smashed on the floor with a flash of light, the spiny blue slugs bursting into the air, swirling in a circle, then zipping through the window pane and out into the night.

"Rrgh!" snarled the demon, raising a hand to its smoking cheek. "Someone's going to pay for that. How about you, Indian Seacrest?"

Mark grabbed the demon from behind and put him in an arm lock. "Niall, whatever you took, you're having a reaction, okay? A bad reaction. We're your friends. Just relax. Okay? Relax."

"I'm not Niall, you pathetic queen." The demon bent his knees, reached behind him, grabbed Mark's belt and with one hand, threw him effortlessly into Sandeep's living room, where he cracked his shoulder over the arm of the easy chair. "What kind of ridiculous name is that anyway? Don't his stupid parents know how to spell 'Neil'?"

Sandeep's mind was scrambling. This is a demon, right? It's demons that have black eyes, isn't it? How do you fight off someone as strong as this? Is this Rooz' evil boyfriend now possessing his friend? "Crowley?" ventured Sandeep.

"Ugh, no." replied the demon. "Although with the soul in that jar there, I could have bought and sold Crowley's sorry hide. But now it's gone and guess who's now my own personal chew toy? You're about to find out what your colon tastes like, Dorothy. Curry, maybe?"

"But why, though?" he answered gingerly, edging away from the demon toward the door. Sandeep remembered his letter opener being pretty sharp and it was only a few feet away. "What were you doing in my... in my neighbour's apartment?" He surreptitiously wrapped his fingers around the carved antler handle while the demon continued on indulgently, oblivious.

"I was looking for leverage against the king. I'm sick of having to answer to Willy Loman... and I found useful little you. Fancy that."

Sandeep pointed the engraved weapon at the demon. He'd taken a few knife-fighting classes when he was going out with martial-arts-Graham, and he assumed a defensive stance that he hoped looked intimidating.

The demon's eyes widened and he took a step back. "Where did you get that?"

The doctor had, in truth, borrowed it without asking from his wife's mantle to open important mail when he thought required a little extra theatricality was warranted. He didn't know where she'd gotten it, or why it was now making his intruder retreat with such urgency. "You like it, do you?"

The demon sized up the sharply dressed young man in front of him. "You're bluffing. That's a forgery or a replic..." Sandeep stepped forward and jabbed the knife in the air. The demon took another step back in alarm. "Alright, I believe you. Let's not go nuts here." The demon raised his hands, shrugging and gesturing, his palms pointing nervously to the ceiling. "We can talk about this."

Sandeep shifted the knife in his grip and switched to what he remembered was an offensive combat stance.

Before he could step into slashing distance, Niall's body stiffened and his jaw dropped, spilling the demon onto the ceiling in a gulf of black smoke. The demon gushed into Abacad's apartment, past the dead and useless meatsuit it had left behind and away.

Niall dropped onto the area rug like a cinder block, just missing the coffee table.

"Sandeep," wheezed Mark from behind the chair as he got slowly to his feet, "whatever you're infested with here, you've got to spray for it, man."

Niall curled onto his side and coughed. "You need to find a priest. _I _need to find a priest." He breathed. "I could feel that thing crawling around inside my head. It, like, shone a light on all my worst..."

Sandeep pulled the vodka bottle out of the ice bucket. "Brilliant. Priests all around." He pulled the stopper out with his teeth, spat it out and took a swig. It really was lovely vodka.

"Honey, maybe you should sit down," said Mark, rubbing his collarbone and planting himself in the stuffed armchair. "I think you're in shock."

Sandeep nodded, looking upon the antique dagger in one hand, the bottle in the other and the broken glass in the kitchen. "I think you're right." He put the vodka down beside Niall and went to look for the specimen. "As soon as I find the worm."

"What worm?"

"The worm! Rooz' worm. The one in the jar that smashed."

"It's gone," said Niall as he rolled onto his butt and picked up the bottle. "It disappeared when it hit the floor."

Sandeep inhaled and looked around again. "I need to make a call."

"Sarah and Isaac are waiting for us," said Mark. "What do you want me to tell them?"

* * *

Sam reclined on a red velvet chaise lounge. The room's ceiling were draped in decadent red gauze and its furniture was draped in dead demons. Sam's irises were tiny rings around his huge dilated pupils, and he was drenched in red from chin to navel. He closed his eyes and smiled as he took in a languid and serene breath of air. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt so relaxed.

A flash of white light abruptly shot up his nose, crashing through his afterglow and doubling him over. Sam roared and rolled onto his hands, his body wrenching and instinctively trying to hork up the foreign, invading entity. He heaved one more time, but his adam's apple caught in his throat.

Sam realized what he had just swallowed.

He panted, horrified, as he wiped a hand across his chin and felt the sticky resistence of drying blood. His shoulders hunched and he immediately felt cold and vulnerable. There was a black cashmere shawl among the silk throw pillows and he wrapped it around his shoulders. He glanced around the room and contemplated all the beings he'd killed – and eaten.

They're demons. You don't feel sorry for demons – not really. If there's anything that deserves to die, it's them.

Isn't it?

Sam glanced upwards, trying to block out all his victims and caught sight of himself in the mirrored ceiling.

If he were in a warehouse, gun drawn, and he'd seen that blood-drunk thing staring back at him, he'd have immediately opened fire.

Sam ran into the bathroom and splashed water on his face, rinsing all that red into the sink. It was freaking everywhere. He could scrub his chin, but that just splattered blood into his hair. He got into the bathtub.

Sam pulled the curtain and took the longest, hottest and most vigorous shower of his life. His skin was red and tender when he got out, but even after he double-rinsed and towelled off, he could still feel sticky red under his fingernails and between his teeth.

He got dressed and away he walked.

* * *

**BONUS: Translations**

Farsi to English:

_Azat motenafferam_ = I hate you

_Bache-naneh_ =A tantrum thrown by a petulant child when they don't get their own way.

_Aske-temsah_ = Crocodile tears _(Which, mind-bogglingly, has the exact same connotation for the exact same words in Farsi as in English. Perhaps English borrowed the phrase.)_

_Chert-o-pairt_ = Bullshit! (more or less)

_(AN: I asked my Farsi speaking friend for a Persian equivalent to 'I know you're lying and I don't want to listen to your nonsense.')_

In Classical Latin (the Latin of ancient literature), Vs are pronounced like Ws, among other differences. Supposedly though, it's Ecclesiastical Latin used in magical incantation, and demons would be more familiar with it, since they're more often addressed by the clergy. I once had a long conversation with an interesting Satanist priest about the meta-linguistics of infernal forces, which kind of inspired that scene.

And Sandeep, the team that wears the light cyan uniforms is the Tennessee _Titans,_ not the _Texans,_ who play out of Houston. Why would Tennessee name their team after another state? So no, your football-loving wife would _not_ be proud.


	9. The Queen in Yellow

**The story continues as** **Dean reunites with Sam, Cole doesn't quite get his family back, and the Doctor has a jarring realization. Find out what misery tastes like, and how to break the Devil's heart. **

* * *

"_Chuck Norris once punched a man in the soul." ~Corinthians 9:22_

* * *

Cole was busy dosing the booze bottles behind the bar of the Black Spur with holy water. His next stop would be the Pink Flamingo, just in case Dean hopped between the two taverns. He was sure he'd be back eventually, and when he was, there'd be a nasty surprise waiting for him in his glass. Manoeuvring the flashlight and the syringe in tandem was finicky work, but Cole pressed on, assuring himself that it was well worth it.

"Cold?" came a voice from the darkened space beyond the bar.

"No," stammered Cole, thinking quickly. "but I'll have to working again soon." The bearded man standing in the dark had startled him, and the marine's mind scrambled to pinpoint the hole in his plan. He'd taken precautions to make sure that none of the establishment's staff would interrupt him after hours. "The fridge's motor was clogged," continued Cole, "and it's taken me some time to clear."

"Your name isn't _actually_ 'Cold', is it?" continued the trench coated figure, taking a seat at the bar.

_This guy doesn't work here, _thought Cole. Luke was supposed to have been watching the perimeter, so if anyone happened by, he could signal. They had gone over the plan a dozen times, and if the boy had picked a counter-advantageous vantage point, so help him god, Cole was going to…

"Your son is fine," continued the man, fixing his piercing gaze on Cole. "I'm here to speak to you. Do you know a woman named Buttercup?"

"Nnoo," replied Cole slowly.

Cain continued. "Blonde hair, long fingers, has a talent for sketching?"

"You just described my wife. Her name was Amanda. Buttercup was just what a demon named Dean called her to taunt me before he killed her."

Cain snuffed knowingly. "Dean, yes. If Buttercup is your wife, you should know that she's not dead. I know this because she was under my care until recently."

"Who are you, exactly?"

"Me? You'd be better off not knowing. Just think of me as Patient Zero of the disease which now afflicts your wife."

"What disease?"

Cain stood up and inhaled deliberately. "Violence."

The hostile marine bristled and quietly pulled a small knife out of its holster – an inscribed Kurdish blade with a handle of carved, worn antler. He held it low and out of sight as he circled to the other side of the bar.

The blue eyes of the bearded man twinkled. "Don't blame yourself, soldier. You tried hard not to bring your war home with you, and you succeeded. It was the demon, not you that infected her." He canted his head. He didn't know definitively what Cole was holding, but he could guess. "I can see that you're a very competent and resourceful man. You are well equipped for the fight you think is ahead of you. Your wife however, is not the villain here. She's a mere victim of circumstance. I would not see her harmed."

"I'd never hurt Amanda," replied Cole.

"Then put away that knife." Cain swivelled the stool toward Cole and sat down as if all his joints creaked. Cole wondered if the stool would break, since it was now apparently holding the weight of the world.

Cain shook his head and spoke with tired amusement. "Integrity is burdensome. The ease of giving up is so seductive. Rolling over, pawning off one's responsibility, passing along blame... complacency is laziness and laziness is easy. It was in weakness that I relinquished my curse. Dean was foolish to seek it out, and rash to accept it without hearing the consequences."

"Dean Winchester has something of yours? I know the feeling."

Cain grimaced and sighed. "I, in my passivity, am the architect of his fall and by extension, Buttercup's."  
Instead of correcting her name, Cole replied "You know where Dean is?"

"It would be a mistake to seek him and not your wife. I am here to point you toward her, and not him. Perhaps one shall follow the other."

Cole circled the bearded man warily, keeping his guard up but putting the demon blade back into his waistband. "Tell me about the Knights of Hell."

Cain's amusement faded, and he bristled, sitting very straight. "You don't need to know about the Order."

"'The Order'? That's awfully familiar, friend."

"Cole, is it?" began Cain, raising a patient hand. "You'll forgive me for being blunt, but speaking to people is not my forte. I'm sure you can relate, one killer to another. This conversation is a courtesy. It appears that you are facing a fork in your path. To kill Dean, you need the Blade and the Mark. Buttercup is closer to them than you are. She, not you, could get you your revenge. But ask yourself, if you had to choose, would you rather your satisfaction, or your happiness?"

Cole broke his concentration and allowed himself to ponder this. After his first confrontation with the demon, when he lay bruised and bloodied in the parking lot of the Flamingo, he gave serious thought to giving up. Letting go of his vendetta. If this had been his shot and he couldn't beat Dean, maybe he should take his life and live it. After all, isn't the definition of insanity the willingness to do the exact same thing over and over expecting a different result?

_No. No, it isn't._ Stick-to-it-iveness is what built this country, and a marine never gives up. A man never gives up. A man does everything to defend his family.

His family. His father is dead, and so was his wife, but what if she isn't? Trying to avenge his dad, he'd failed to protect his wife. This blood feud had lost him more than it had won him. In fact, it had won him nuthin' at all. Is his wife someone he should rescue, or a loss he should just cut?

Cole does not cut losses. Cole does not leave a man behind. Cole is loyal to his platoon, loyal to his family. He has a bigger obligation to the living than to the dead. But still...

"Satisfaction or happiness..." ventured Cole, looking Cain in the eye, completely disarmed, "...are they mutually exclusive?"

"That's the spirit," said Cain. "There's a chance you can have your cake and eat it too, but it's incredibly slim." He stood up. "For what it's worth, if this were my decision to make, I'd choose family. Like you, my family was taken from me, but if I had even the slightest opportunity to reclaim it, I'd leap at it. My Collette was beauty and light; she was stillness and wisdom and peace. Her company was more rewarding, more satisfying than slaughtering a thousand enemies."

The last words that this strange man spoke made Cole shiver, and he knew to his core that he had earned this knowledge through laborious and bloody real-life comparison. He had indeed cut down an army and found himself wanting.

Cole was reminded of Walter's frantic warning: _Your son will not thank you for this. _Could he un-break his wedding vows? Is there still time to give his son back his childhood? "I do want my family back," said Cole finally. "Where can I find Amanda?"

"Come with me," replied Cain. "If you don't recognize her, that's to be expected."

* * *

"What kind of rinky-dink, revolving door operation are you running here?" Dean snarled at Abacad as she and Charlie walked into the operating room. "She just left. You can catch her if you hurry."

"Who did?" asked Charlie. "Have you been crying?"

"Mister Winchester, where did you get your..." began Abacad as she pointed an accusing finger at him, but stopped when she found his right elbow miraculously unscarred. "Oh. It's gone."

"Yes!" snapped Dean. "That's what I'm saying. Just let me go, and I'll go chase her down my own damn self."

"Peculiar," said Abacad as she yanked her glasses out of her pocket and put them on. "Are you still a daeva?" She stepped forward and peered into Dean's eye, then bristled in revulsion and pulled her specs back off. "Never mind."

"No, I'm human," sneered Dean. "But your platform here is just _so_ comfy, I didn't want to get up."

"What happened to it?" asked Charlie. "Did his confession, like, exorcize it or something?"

"You think I know how the _rooh _work?" snorted Abacad. "Nobody understands how souls work!"

Dean turned to Charlie. "Look, some psycho chick just came in, ripped the Mark off me then wandered out."

"'Some psycho chick'? Dude, even at my most Lohan, I've never done anything like that. How did she just get the Mark of Cain like she was stealing your wallet? How did she even find you?"

"Do you know this woman?" added Abacad, using her glasses to quickly look out and through the external wall, hoping to spot Dean's alleged thief.

Dean pursed his lips, nodded and muttered reluctantly to Charlie, "the supervillain's wife."

"The supervillain? What su- oh, you mean the marine?" asked Charlie. She raised her eyebrows and asked pointedly, "so, when you said you gave him something to cry about, was it her you were talking about?"

Dean closed his eyes, furrowed his brow, and responded with another terse little nod.

The hacker narrowed her eyes and took a hard breath in and out. She turned to Abacad. "You know what? You can go ahead and stop worrying about me letting him up." She looked at the prone demon. "He's a monster. He's not going anywhere."

Vandaveon's voice came through the intercom. "Doctor Abacad, we have Doctor Nahali on line two for you."

Abacad nodded and gave Charlie the non-verbal _'watch him'_ as she left.

Charlie answered with a knowing nod and a thumbs-up.

"I may be a monster, but what the hell are you?" demanded Dean as Abacad left swiftly.

* * *

"Sandeep, hello," began Abacad. "Are you still going out dancing with your friends? Please say hello to everyone for me."

"I'm afraid we have a bit of a situation," said Sandeep.

"Is this about the, um, 'backslide window' you were telling me about? Have Isaac and Liam gotten back together?"

"No, nothing like that. Honey, please tell me it was you that left that slimy soul in my freezer."

"Oh..." Abacad ran a hand through her short hair, feeling guilty. "I did, yes. I meant to tell you about it, and I'm sorry I didn't, but I was worried..."

"And I'm sorry it got smashed," interrupted Sandeep quickly. "So let's call it even."

"What?"

* * *

_My knife is in the car. It and I grind our teeth in unison, frustrated that we're apart._

_The car is old and such a piece of crap; dented, rusted, scratched and cracked. Even if it were pristine, I doubt I'd feel guilty about smashing its window with a rock. I bash the glovebox until it opens. Once you've extracted the pearl, you throw away the oyster. To hell with this busted old car. _

_I didn't know that the Bloodshed Lullaby was a duet. I pick up the knife with teeth – the First Blade, it's called – and it sings to me a part of the song I didn't even know was missing. This purpose rings through my arm, then through my chest and body, singing to me odes of the glory of violence. Epic poems which take place in the future, and I'm the blood-splashed hero. _

_I wish I had a little brother to slaughter. _

_I look down and suddenly my hands don't seem wet enough. I've never felt that way before. My hands should be hot and sticky and red. This won't do at all. _

_I'm a stick of dynamite, but I can only light the fuse once. This is an important moment, and I have to pick someone worthy as the first victim of this holy massacre. I know the perfect person._

_No, not the common demon. Dean with black eyes is weak. He resists his calling. Why else would it have been so easy to take it from him? Did I hear him thank me as I robbed him? Pathetic._

_It is the man Cain, that brave and noble nothing; it's to him I owe a great debt. He deserves a good death, and no one else can deliver death as well as I can. I knew that the moment I became this weapon._

_I wonder if he's ever heard the harmony of the lullaby. I bet he'd love it._

* * *

"I said I was sorry!"

"That's the point, though! Demons can't apologize because you can't feel regret!"

"But I do."

"No, you don't. You just want me to let you go. Maybe I should just FedEx you right to the marine. Let him carve out his pound of flesh. You sure deserve it."

"His name is Cole. Cole Trenton."

"Like you care, Dean."

Charlie didn't even notice Abacad join them for their squabbling in the operating room until she saw the look on Dean's face and turned around.

"Doc, there you are!" she said. "I want you to give him a brain implant that shocks him every time he even _thinks_ of doing something evil. I'll bankroll the whole thing. My treat."

The doctor shook her head and fluttered her hand in the air, waving away Charlie's suggestion. "Mister Winchester, you came here to steal and restore your brother's soul, is that right?"

"You know it is," answered Dean defensively.

"That was indeed the whole of your business here? Nothing else you wanted to steal or find out? No work you wanted to have done? The scar you would have had me remove; is it gone to your satisfaction?"

"I wouldn't exactly call it my satisfaction," replied the demon.

"Wait, are you letting him just go?" demanded Charlie. "Come on, he's a loose cannon! You don't know what he's going to do next."

"I'm fairly certain what he _won't_ do. His business here is at an end. Your brother's soul has escaped its vessel, presumably to return to its host. Your Mark is gone, as is your need of me. Can I trust you to leave without incident?"

"Sure, whatever." Dean paused. "Wait, what happened to Sammy's soul?"

"I understand that one of my husband's drunk friends dropped and broke it." Abacad yanked the lab coat off Dean and swiftly shrugged it back onto her shoulders. "Please see yourself out. I hope I never see you again."

"Yeah?" countered Dean, hopping to his feet. "And what if you do?"

Abacad's nostrils flared. She forcefully pushed her right sleeve up to her elbow and made a fist. "Then so help me, I will punch you right in the _rooh_." She pointed to the door with her left hand. "Get the hell out."

Dean bristled and headed for the door.

"Your confederate is also free to go," added the doctor. "Take him with you when you leave."

* * *

"I think the worst part was that you seemed like someone I could totally kick it with," said Vandaveon as he reclined in his chair.

Sully was navigating the computer, and he turned, brightening. "Dude, me too! And this place really _is_ cool!"

"Yeah, but then when you were like 'sike!' it was like grade school all over again."

"You musta been pissed," said Sully regretfully. "I'm sorry."

"That's it, stringbean," said Dean loudly as he strode into reception, his bitterness obvious. "We're clearing out."

"I thought we were supposed to find Cain," replied the IT guy, getting up.

"Change of plan," grunted Dean, motioning to the exit. As an afterthought, he ducked around the counter, careful not to lean on or over the Devil's Flypaper and grabbed the stapler off of the reception desk. He pointed it angrily in Van's face. "Tell your boss she can suck it."

Van rolled his eyes as Dean took it and charged out the door.

Sully turned to hurry after the demon, and quickly added "I put my number in your phone, and you've got my email, right?"

Van smiled. "Yeah, later days, man."

"I'm sorry we got off on the wrong foot."

Abacad's voice came over the intercom. "Thanks for staying late, everyone. You've all done more than your share today, so please go home and relax. I'll finish up here. I'm grateful for all of you."

Abacad placed the phone into the cradle and glanced out the window at the darkening sky. She took off her lab coat, draped it over her arm and headed toward her office.

It seemed unlikely that anyone else would venture through the crumbling hole the demon had blown through the wall, and, through all the afternoon's lunacy and excitement, the vault remained secure. Abacad allowed the tension in her shoulders to ease and stretched her neck.

Displeased as this violent siege had made her, she felt blessed that she had lost little of significance, and that the Winchester brothers would no longer pose a problem. She even allowed herself a smile at the unease that she'd instilled in Dean. _Get me out of here, she's like a witch or something..._

Abacad walked across the threshold of her office to retrieve her purse and wool peacoat, and the air scraped her face and clothes as though she were walking through a thorn bush.

The cuffs of her pants and the hems of her blouse snagged on points in midair and ripped before she could stop the force of her body walking through the warding barrier.

The doctor lurched toward her desk in shock and half-sat on it with her hip. She blinked in incredulous pain and raised a hand to her stinging cheek. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and peered at her reflection in the screen.

Sure enough, her face bore scrapes and scratches, and she was bleeding from several places. She noticed her blue glass necklace in the smooth black surface and, just for the heck of it, unclasped it.

As soon as the large square beads broke contact with her skin, the doctor was racked with chills and sweats. A wave of acute vertigo struck, her stomach turned and she doubled over and vomited heartily into her wastebasket. Once she thought she was empty, she spat and felt the bile rise again in her gullet. She clamped her lips together and struggled to reconnect the choker's clasp.

When she did, her nausea vanished.

She sat down on the carpeted floor and hugged her wastebasket, worried that her dawning realization would make her sick all over again.

* * *

Sully arrived on the sidewalk, saw Dean, saw Dean looking at the Impala, and knew enough not to say anything.

The Winchester was jerking back and forth, not knowing which way to turn, walking around his once-beautiful car. "Son... of a... bitch," he said through gritted teeth. He looked at the smashed window and the dented metal and flaked paint of the glove box, which now lay battered open. He was angry – well, he was always angry – but he couldn't muster any outrage. The window and the glove compartment were really just drops of paint in the larger Jackson Pollock painting that was the injured Impala.

Dean ran a hand over the window well, allowing the jagged shards of glass to bite at his fingers as he took in the damage to the car for the first time critically. He wished he could blame all this on the vandal, but the results of his own neglect and recklessness were plain. This was no one else's fault. In another life, he's have never let his Baby rust and corrode. He'd have never let her get dented in the first place, let alone leave her that way. For months she'd complained, cried out for help every time he turned the key in the ignition, and he'd never bothered to listen.

Dean closed his eyes and leaned against the car with his forehead. He could remember the glint of the car keys in the sunlight as his father tossed them to him. He could remember his chest welling with pride at receiving such a gift as though it were yesterday. _I'll take good care of her._

Dean stood up and took in the whole car. It cut him to the quick. _I don't know if there's any comin' back from this, baby. Not for either of us._

His phone rang from his pocket and brought him back to reality. He pulled it out forcefully and answered.

"Yeah?" demanded Dean.

"Dean?" Sam's voice sounded small and scared, like a child who'd just woken from a bad dream.

"Sam? What's up? What's going on?"

Dean could hear his brother's voice crack. "I didn't know who else to call... can you come get me? Please?"

The demon walked around to the driver's side without hesitation, motioning to Sully to climb in as well. "Where are you? What's wrong?"

Sully looked at the broken glass all over the passenger seat and sighed. He brushed the glass gently onto the floor, closed the glove box and sat down. The compartment fell back open again and hit him in the knees. He closed it again. It fell open again. He looked at the preoccupied driver and decided to shut his cakehole.

"Uh, I think I'm in Washington somewhere... I don't know," continued Sam. Dean thought it sounded like he was about to start crying. "Dean, I did a lot of bad stuff..."

Dean turned the key in the ignition and put the Impala into gear. He was answered by that now-familiar painful grinding squeal. _One problem at a time, baby._ A thought suddenly occured to him: if Sam's soul had gotten smashed, where might it have gone? He already knew the answer. "Sit tight, champ. We're heading North. Find out the address, text me, and I'll be there before you know it." He turned to Sully. "Grab the road map, will ya?"

"Dean, you should..." Sam faltered. "You should bring a straight jacket."

The demon pulled a face. "I got cuffs, don't worry." He hung up and accelerated.

"You want me to navigate?" asked Sully as he gracelessly unfolded the unwieldy piece of large pastel paper.

"No, what I want you to do is pick your favorite spot along I-84. Anywhere you like."

"Oh... kay. What for?"

Dean smiled wide and confident. "Fresh start for you, Sully my man."

"Wait, you're just going to ditch me in some town along 84? What kind of plan is that?"

"Okay fine. If you'd rather pick a spot along Route 97, go ahead. I'm easy."

* * *

Doctor Abacad walked through the door and took it all in: the threadbare carpets, the cracked jukebox, the stained pool table with 5 out of 8 cues in the caddy, the dollar bills clothes-pegged on a string over the dusty bottles. The tavern, apparently called "Cold Beer", was lit entirely by stained glass lamps (which weren't so much vintage as just old), filled with a haphazard selection of fluorescent and incandescent bulbs of various wattages.

The doctor inhaled and could tell immediately that until it had been deemed illegal, the air here had been perpetually blue with cigarette smoke. The old nicotine smell still clung, twenty years later.

The surgeon looked at and over this old, tired place and its old, tired people, and suddenly she felt as old and tired as the bar stools themselves. She walked over, gave one a pat of solidarity and sat down.

The bartender was a man of generous proportions in his early thirties, with a large cross tattooed on his neck, continued, presumably, under his shirt. He closed the dishwasher and walked over to Abacad with an amiable smile. "What can I get for you, today?"

Abacad looked up and spotted her reflection in the cloudy mirror behind the bottles. Perhaps in a cleaner mirror she wouldn't appear so wrinkled, beaten and malnourished, but there she was. "I wish to wallow in self-pity," she began. "Would you please fix me a cocktail that tastes of sadness and defeat?"

The bartender narrowed one eye and pondered. After a moment's pause, he asked "So... like... Jäger and mouthwash?"

Abacad sighed and smiled. "I trust you," she said with a lazy wave of her hand.

"Hello darling," came Crowley's gravelly voice from behind her. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Sorrow is a natural part of life," said Abacad. "but I've never before tried to drown mine. Today seemed like as good a time as any to start."

"Well, I'm very pleased that you've decided to join me in my favorite hobby," said Crowley, beaming.

The bartender plunked down a cocktail. With an apologetic shrug, he offered, "it's a cheap martini with tequila instead of vodka, and I garnished it with sushi ginger leftover from lunch. Um, enjoy?" He cringed as the doctor picked it up.

"Many thanks, young man." The doctor took a sip of her concocktail, sneered, smacked her lips, but didn't cough or wince.

The bartender chewed a fingernail. "How is it?"

"I don't care for it," she answered appreciatively. "I think we shall call it the Disagreeable Doctor Dingbat. Please Mister Crowley..." Abacad slid the glass coyly to the demon king. "...have a taste, won't you? Sample my shame." She gave him a confrontational stare.

"I'll not have you drinking that," said Crowley. He lifted the glass by the rim and placed it out of reach. He beckoned the hefty bartender with a wave. "Two rusty nails, one a double. Make them properly."

Neck Tattoo nodded and got to work.

"Pikachu, I am not your new drinking buddy," sighed Abacad, glancing at the dusty bottles.

"Then what brings you here, _habibi_? Surely you must have known this would catch my attention." Crowley watched as Abacad crunched her eyes shut and noticed the small, deep horizontal scrapes on her face. He reached gently and pointed with his thumb. "What happened today?"

The doctor didn't look at him, choosing instead to smile thanks at the bartender as he handed them both their Rusty Nails. Abacad picked up her glass before answering. "Today I was very happy for your heavy warding. I am in your debt."

Crowley smiled and spread his arms warmly. "Anytime, my beauty. Happy to do it."

Abacad held the glass in front of her nose and sniffed, contemplating the events of the day. "Dean Winchester is the only demon I've ever examined. Your physiology is fascinating." She swivelled her stool to look at Crowley intently. "Can you describe the effects of human blood on your brain chemistry?"

"I'd rather not..." began Crowley uncomfortably.

Abacad pressed. "You mentioned that you injected it recreationally, like a drug. Could you perceive your victims' individual humanity during your high? Could you feel, for example, Sam Winchester's childhood?"

Crowley cleared his throat. "I need a few more drinks before I'll get into that, love."

Staring at him incisively, Abacad slid her rusty nail to him and ordered two more.

Crowley finished his drink and picked up hers. "Well... not exactly. It's more akin to a shot of emotion. You know? When I was on blood, for the first time in centuries, I could _feel_..."

Abacad nodded thoughtfully and sipped the new drink she'd been given. It was much more pleasantly agreeable than the last one.

She thought about her conflicted feelings toward the King of Hell; how much she enjoyed his company, his nasty line of work (though only slightly moreso than her own, of course), his genteel and clever conversation, and how he always kept her on her toes. She also thought about how much of her own identity she'd invested in her work, and wondered if Crowley had any idea how much violating her personal code of ethics had violated her as a person. She wondered if he could even begin to fathom her moral horror and pain.

Sam Winchester's animectomy, the one black spot on her record, was requested by the man now sitting to her right. A man too weak to say no to the big, pretty eyes of his true love: Dean Winchester. She wondered if she'd be afforded the same privileges. She also wondered, if pressed, if it came down to it, who Crowley would choose.

Abacad looked at the increasingly worried British demon beside her and realized that her English words failed her to articulate her feelings with any precision, elegance or clarity. And her boyfriend was nowhere near proficient enough in her native language to fumblingly understand even her most simplistic explanation in Farsi.

She sniffed her drink again and took another sip. It was a good choice for a first-timer in the mood she was in. Perhaps, in another life, Crowley had been a bartender.

Crowley was concerned. He had never considered himself a very intuitive person, but it was clear enough that the surgeon had something painful to tell him. He tried again to touch her, putting a gentle hand to the side of her neck. "Tell me what happened to your cheek," he prodded.

After a time, Abacad answered. "_Azizam,_ will you excuse me a moment? I have something for you in my car."

"Sure," he answered. "I'll make sure nobody tampers with your drink."

Abacad grimaced in a way that could be mistaken for a polite smile, got up and left. Crowley looked over at the tattooed bartender and spotted him curiously sniff the misery-flavoured cocktail he'd made for the unfamiliar patron, and take a surreptitious sip. He didn't seem to know what to make of it.

The doctor was back in 8 minutes. She sat back down, put her left elbow on the bar and pinched a full syringe purposefully between her three main fingers. She glanced at him without moving the object any closer.

"What's that, then?" asked Crowley.

"I think you know exactly what this is," answered Abacad. She looked at the vial of dark red liquid. "I like you. I care about you... but I cannot forgive you. Crowley... this will not work. Any of this. I can't... have... any more." She looked at him and handed him the syringe. "I want you to understand. Whenever you're ready, I want you to inject my blood. Feel what I feel. Know that I am not what I was. I simply cannot walk between the worlds."

Crowley's jaw dropped as he accepted the needle. "Are you breaking up wi' me?"

The surgeon nodded wordlessly and drank from her glass.

"We can talk about this. Work something out."

"The King of the Crossroads, always trying to make a deal," marveled Abacad sadly. "Would that we could work it out, but I don't believe we can. I don't want to." She sighed. "Though the person I _would_ like a word with is your mother."

* * *

Buttercup sat, lit up by the reflective yellow petals of the flowers around her. Between the warmth of the sun, the breeze as it gently swayed the clover and the busy-laziness of the honeybees, she had quite lost track of time. She sat on the hillock in the sun, the First Blade beside her among the blossoms, cooing in turn at the bloodthirsty Mark on her elbow. She took in the aroma of pollen, and sweet clover nectar, and imagined this picturesque plain as a battlefield of old. She imagined the blood of butchered young men in Flanders nourishing the poppies, which the wind blew blithely here and there.

Buttercup felt a bee land on her shoulderblade and walk in a circle. She smiled.

She began thinking about the olfactory perception of bees; they communicate primarily through pheromones, with certain chemical compositions sending certain messages. For instance, the scent of a smashed bee is a signal that the hive is under siege, and all the other bees rush to attack. Smash one bee, and the defensive assault begins.

Her eyes welled with delight as she beheld a man come over the hill toward her. Black wool, dark grey hair, bushy beard, piercing eyes, still her expression remained. _Ahh, Cain. Just the bee I want to smash._

He sat down beside her on the hill. The two took in the breeze, "Beautiful day," remarked Cain.

Buttercup watched the insects and flowers and had to agree. "How did you find me?" she asked.

"The bees helped."

She straightened her legs and placed her hands on the ground beside her, her right quietly finding the Blade. "Are you ready?"

"No."

"No?"

"Not yet."

The bee on Buttercup's shoulder pressed gently as it took off and buzzed in a lazy ring around the pair. They watched it zigzag drunkenly into the pasture. "Such a beautiful day," repeated Buttercup. "A good ending."

"Amanda, you don't have to be this."

"What else would I be?"

Cole climbed the hill to join the two. Buttercup squinted at him. "Who is this?"

"You told me his name was Cold."

Buttercup tilted her head like a quizzical dog. "The bad, bitter man I once knew well."

Cole knelt in front of Buttercup and took her hand. "I'm your husband."

She patiently pulled her hand out of his. "For twelve years, I remember. Dean had me on the rack for nearly nineteen. And he never got deployed and left to go fight."

"Mandy, I'm so sorry."

"Dean flayed the skin on my torso and played my ribcage like a xylophone." She looked the marine in the eye. "And you let him do it. So you can imagine how happy I am to see you. I have no use for you. I'd rather you not intrude on Cain's death. Leave."

Buttercup gripped the Blade and stood up. To Cain she said, "it doesn't matter whether or not you're ready, because I am. I think we'd both rather you died on your feet."

Cain stood up and Cole extended a hand. "I want you to know-"

Buttercup lunged, headbutting Cain in the chin. She slashed downwards with her right hand, but Cain caught her wrist. Buttercup punched him in the chest with her left, handed off the Blade and slashed again, this time catching him with the tip in his right bicep.

Cain retreated a step and tripped over Cole, and they sprawled in the yellow flowers.

Buttercup handed the Blade back to her dominant hand and advanced. She gripped double-handed and brought the blade down hard where Cain had landed, pulling force when he rolled out of position. She threw an elbow, connecting hard with his tailbone.

"Mandy, look at me!" blurted Cole, grabbing her elbow and spinning her toward him. "This isn't you."

Buttercup sneered and slapped him in the sternum with an open hand, buckling his ribs and knocking him back several feet. He wheezed and stumbled, trying to correct for her tremendous force. He had no idea she was this strong.

She slashed low at Cain's shins, hitting only his right as he was getting to his feet. Cain fell onto his right elbow and turned his weight on his shoulders. He looked at her.

She leaned forward and seized a handful of his shaggy grey hair intimately behind the ear. She lifted him and looked deep into his eyes with utmost beneficence. She flipped the Blade in her hand and smiled. "Thank you for everything. Goodbye, my friend."

She raised her arm and would have said something else if not for a young and unwelcome voice piercing the silence. "Dad! Are you okay?"

Buttercup bristled at the interruption, stabbed Cain in the back of his left thigh and turned with irritation toward the distraction.

Cold's son was busy helping him to his feet. Buttercup threw the Blade casually to her other hand – it felt so harmonious and comfortable in her grip – and sniffed the air. The warm pollen mixed with the blood of men and she looked at the boy defending his father. They huddled against each other and looked at her with pleading fear. _If Cold was your husband, is this boy your son, do you suppose?_

_I wish I had a little brother to slaughter._

_...but failing that..._

She flicked the Blade at Cain, splashing him with his own blood and reminding him to stay down and await further instructions.

Buttercup smeared blood across her palm and kneaded it with her hand. She could feel the Mark and the Blade purr and coo urgently. The massacre was about to start and she looked upon her son hungrily. _I will bathe the Earth in thy blood, child. You were mine, it is my right._

He looked to her like a start button, begging to be pressed.

Cole's lungs gasped behind his cracked ribs.

Lucas didn't know what to do. He pulled out his folding knife and straightened the blade, but he held it with no idea how to use it. His vision blurred with his tears, which leaked uncontrollably out and over his cheeks. He gripped the fabric of his father's shirt in his other hand.

Buttercup raised the First Blade and stepped forward, ready to cut through all the meat and tight gristle of that fat little neck and get at that sweet, hot blood flowing beneath. Buttercup's eyes found the pendant hanging around the child's neck, flickering in the sunlight.

That glint reminded her of a long-forgotten day in the sun where the two of them climbed trees so small that they both felt like King Kong up in their spindly branches. The itty-bitty McDonald's burgers grew cold in the bag on the grass as the upturned branches of the young oak trees squished their feet.

Such a pudgy little kid. _Remember his little dimpled butterball hands as you held them? You held them as he stood on his feet for the first time. Luke's face lit up with triumph and glee as your doofus husband fumbled with the camera, desperate to capture memories that would be forever burned into your mind's eye._

The little horned pendant gleamed with sunlight; light like what streamed through the window as the boy came in crying and holding his bleeding chin. It was September, he was six and _mommy, I hurt myself_. She scooped him up, kissed it better and then put on the bandage for good measure. She would squeeze, hug and cuddle him until there was nothing else in the world to make anyone cry.

She opened her eyes and Luke and Cole weren't even looking at her. Cole was whispering assurances and platitudes to the boy, promising that everything would be alright. They both had the look of the helpless, hoping that death wouldn't be as bad as they were afriad it would be.

Amanda felt something tear. She dropped the object in her hand and rushed to embrace her son. "Honey-honey-honey, I'm here, it's okay."

She wrapped her arms around him and clutched him to her chest. "I'm sorry baby, I don't hate you. I love you. I'd never hurt you, little monster," she exclaimed in a halting jerking voice as sobs caught in her throat. "Lucas, you've gotten so big! I missed so much. Have you been taking care of your father?"

Cole was taken aback, watching the exchange skeptically. He looked at Cain for an answer, but got none.

"What happened to your arm, mom?" asked Luke, pointing to the Mark of Cain resting on her elbow below the rolled cuff of her shirt.

"Never mind that, where did you get that necklace? Did a girl give it to you? It makes you look so grown up..." She hugged him again with the strength of her soul.

She gripped him like she'd never let him go. The harder she squeezed, the safer he'd be from the world, the closer those happy memories would stay.

Luke couldn't breathe. He could feel his chest compress uncomfortably as his mother's embrace steadily squeezed the air out of his lungs. "Mom... you're..." He looked to his father with bulging eyes. For some reason, Luke thought of boa constrictors.

Cain stumbled carefully to his feet, straightening his bleeding legs.

Cole leaned forward. "Amanda, I think you'd better..."

"It's him," gasped Cain with wide eyes. "Your son is the trigger. She's going to kill him. That's how it starts."

"No, never! I don't want to hurt Luke." Amanda looked at her son's bluish, frightened face and abruptly let go of him. Luke gasped, plopping sideways down into the buttercups.

Cain shook his head. "This choice isn't yours. The bloodlust is coming from the Mark." He held out his hand. "Give it to me."

Amanda stood up and grabbed his hand.

Her arm lit up and she felt that glorious, razor-precise, unequivocal clarity of purpose slither down her arm and leave her. She let go of the bloodshed, the lullaby, and the long ditches clogged with the bodies of the murdered dead. She allowed Cain to take from her the power that comes with watching the light extinguish in the eyes of the dying, and it was only after the angry, inverted F settled back onto Cain's elbow that she realized that she didn't want it.

She grunted and slumped, her knees buckling and threatening to dump her onto the fuzzy yellow ground. She felt hollow and void once more, like a marionette with strings abruptly snipped. Buttercup spat once into a patch of goldenrods, trying to rid her mouth of the taste of her own renewed empty uselessness. She wobbled and looked with disdain at the man and the boy.

Cain flexed his hand hungrily and shook out his arms in satisfaction. He eyed the First Blade, wet and red, stuck with pollen among the blossoms. He shoved the thought out of his mind.

"Amanda, your family had missed you a great deal. You have your life back."

She regarded Cole with chilly venom. "Consolation prize," she muttered.

"Even so," answered Cain, "take what you have won."

"Let's go home," said Cole, stepping forward and putting an arm around her shoulders.

Amanda's shoulders tightened against his touch and she shrunk way, trembling and giving a single dry-heave. She felt like jerking away from him as if he were a hot cooktop. She could barely look at him.

While she was in Hell, she had spent almost twenty years stewing in her grievances until they'd distilled, crystallizing into bitter toxic acid, of which she'd drunk deep. There wasn't time enough in eternity to voice her abject scorn for Cole.

Cole. Coal. A disappointing little hard lump you find in your stocking Christmas morning. Sad and worthless, the broken promise of something better. _You could have had the world._

The woman's eyes fell again on the boy. Him, she did not hate. How is it that when she looks at Luke, she couldn't remember one single thing she hates about him? Why does this creature command such affection from her? Because he does.

Again, that metal glimmer on his chest winked at her and her heart welled with pride and love. She couldn't control it. _In order to stay with the boy, you must also go with the marine. You can't have one without the other. _

_Do I love my son more than I hate my husband?_ Sigh. _Yes. Yeah, I do._

Finally, Amanda relaxed and smiled – at Lucas, not at Cole. "Home, yes. Let's go home."

* * *

**BONUS: Translations**

Habibi: "Darling"... in Arabic (Nice try, Crowley.)  
Azizam: "Darling" in Farsi  
Momurinin: "Darling" in Scottish Gaelic (taken from Outlander)

**The Disagreeable Doctor Dingbat **

**2 oz Gin  
1/2 oz white Tequila  
1/4 oz dry Vermouth**

**Shake over ice, strain into cocktail glass, garnish with a piece of pickled ginger.**

(A/N: The garnish was originally going to be a cocktail onion, but when I was beta-testing this drink I couldn't find any. In the spirit of resourceful bartenders though, I improvised. I was pleasantly surprised, but unfortunately this cocktail isn't nearly as disgusting as it was supposed to have been. Feel free to add any mouthwash, cough syrup or grain alcohol to really give it that _"I have failed and I deserve to suffer"_ flavor. )

The title is a reference to the story by Richard Chambers. Alternate title: "The Queen Bee" (vetoed because of the Season 9 gag reel)

Will conclude in Chapter 10 sometime next week! (Circa March 17th, 2016)


	10. The Best of Enemies

_God, my parents are the two stupidest people on Earth._

_I used to think that when people grew up, they grew all the way up. When I was little, all grownups looked the same. There were two stages: grownups and kids. It was like, at some point, they handed you a trophy and were like "congratulations, citizen. Now you can drive and vote and drink and pay taxes and have kids and understand politics, and everything."_

_My dad is a big dude. He's a marine, so, like, a badass for a living. He lifts weights and shoots guns, and when I asked him, he wouldn't tell me how many confirmed kills he got, so it must be tons. My dad could kick anyone's ass._

_That's even what I thought when that tall guy bust through the door and kicked his ass. I saw Dad on the ground and I was like "okay, he knows what he's doing. He's biding his time. He's gonna turn this around any second. Is that guy Dean? Dean doesn't even know what's gonna hit him."_

_But then Dad didn't get up and I started to get worried. Mom had already grabbed the gun, so I knew this was really serious. I didn't know what to do. So I called the police. That's what you're supposed to do, right? 911 knows what to do._

_I mean, someone fricking has to. Someone needs to know what to do. I wish it was me. I wish that I was the paramedic, or the special forces guy, or Master Chief, and I could just lightning-quick just know the exact-right thing to do. I wished I was Dad._

_And I looked at Dad, and he had nuthin'._

_I will never forget the look on his face when he realized that. _

_Nobody grows up. There is no magic point you get to when everything gets figured out for you. My dad is old, and he doesn't know anything. He doesn't know how to live, or how to be happy, or even how to get revenge right. He just sucks at everything that's not, like, a tactical mission in Libya or whatever. I have to watch him stumble around, trying to play house, to put back together the family that never existed in the first place. He's killing himself trying to make Mom happy, even though he never can._

_Poor Mom. I don't know what happened, but whatever it was, it turned her into a robot. This play house that Dad is trying to make might have made the old Mom happy, but not this one, which just makes all this super-extra depressing._

_There have been four times when I saw Mom cleaning up blood in the house. She seemed embarrassed by the mess, and had a fresh bandage on her shin or shoulder. Three of those times, Dad wasn't even home and the time he was, she just gave him the spray bottle and told him to take over. I wish I knew why Mom sometimes bleeds everywhere. At least it doesn't seem to hurt. _

_I wish I could help clean it all up. If I knew what gets stains out of what, I'd jump in. They need help, and all they have to do is ask and tell me what to do. I feel so useless._

_The only person who knew what to do, how I could help, and who actually shared this with me was Mom's friend Cain. When Dad was bringing Mom into the car, he stopped me and gave me a weird flat piece of bone. _

_Cain told me to get rid of it. It couldn't be destroyed, but he said that no one could ever get their hands on it again. He seemed really freaked out. He said to hide it, especially from him and Mom._

_And then, I knew exactly what to do. Hardware stores sell those instant post-holes; all you have to do is add water and BOOM! You got yourself some concrete. I bought one, mixed it, and then dunked that weird bone – the First Blade? Once it hardens, I'll do something with it. I'm thinking of either taking it to a construction site, or taking it on Brenden Petit's dad's boat and dropping it into a really deep spot of the lake. That's what I'll do._

_It's nice to have a plan. I don't know how to grow up, but when I do, I will make a point of knowing what to do._

* * *

Crowley left the "Cold Beer" tavern and wasn't gone ten minutes before Rowena breezed into the dive bar, dressed in a red gown, and made-up and coiffed as though she believed the Academy Awards were being held in this dump.

Abacad spotted her first, and watching her behaviour prompted the surgeon to smirk to herself. The pretenses and airs of the people who take themselves gravely seriously never failed to amuse the doctor; from the rich American or Iranian businessmen with egos both enormous and fragile, to her professional colleagues so secure in their superior education that they'd sooner die than admit that they forgot where they parked. She watched as Rowena carried herself around the room, looking as though she were searching for the perfect mark to whom to condescend.

"Why there you are, _momurinin_," sang Rowena as she whisked herself over to Abacad's booth. "I barely recognized you, sitting there all hunched over like a beaten squire. You usually have such excellent posture." She sat down and waved her hands in a vertical line. "Sit up straight, won't you dear?"

Abacad straightened and leaned back, regarding the witch with friendly calm. "The truth of your theory has become self-evident." She raised her glass.

Rowena bowed graciously. "Of course it has. Which theory was this, then?"

"It seems you were right about me. Evidence suggests that I am a witch."

The redhead released a short giggle-scream and clapped her hands. "How wonderful! I knew you'd come around. This calls for a celebration, I say. Good sir!" she called to the bartender. "A round if you please! Glass of red wine for me, and another rusty nail for the Disagreeable Doctor Dingbat, post haste!"

Abacad narrowed her eyes quizzically, but said nothing as she swallowed the last sip of her cocktail and sucked at the ice in her glass.

"I believe the next one should be my last," said the doctor, "but please allow me to treat you. I had hoped to hire your services."

"My services?" asked Rowena, with comically exaggerated wonder. "As a tutor in the magical arts, you mean?"

"You mentioned that you could teach me, and I'd be happy to learn, if you're still willing." The witch gave her a skeptical frown, but she continued. "In my line of work, it's important to keep one's skills sharp and up-to-date. I could add you to Transanimation's payroll as a consultant in professional development. Please help me expand my medical capabilities."

Rowena recoiled as if she'd just found a hair in her food. The tattooed bartender arrived with the drinks and the apparently affronted witch took some time to form her retort. She shook her head and waved her hands in front of her dismissively. "Stop-stop, stop! You're... you're looking at this entirely the wrong way. Magic is an art, not a science. It's poetry, not a bleeding... stereo instruction manu'l. It's not something you analyze, it's a thing you feel."

Abacad paused and considered. She leaned forward. "Are you familiar with ballet dance?"

"Of course I know about ballet. Ev'ryone knows about bally."

The doctor smiled. "You made me think of how Russia approaches the discipline as an art form, whereas the Chinese approach it as an athletic endeavor. Both are effective, neither is incorrect, and more importantly, both are perfectly compatible. You think me a purely cerebral creature, but you're wrong. There is an art to what I do, just as there is a science to what you do. I propose a collaboration."

Rowena crossed her arms. "I don't relish being sat on your table being tested with all your... glass and metal... whatnots."

"Of course not!" countered the doctor warmly. "It's me we're studying, not you." She softened and picked up her glass. "I'm the first to admit that I don't fully understand my own ability. I've demonstrated the animectomy before, and tried to train the technique twice, but there's always something my colleagues miss, and I can't put my finger on it. It requires an intuitive finesse that can't be taught, and the best they can do is assist in the procedure."

"To be perfectly candid," interjected the witch with a sigh, "I myself cannae pull out a man's soul."

Abacad waved her glass in an arc. "Science is how I understand the world. For example, the warding in my office is a facet of the health and safety program, and the hexbags gets updated every six months, along with the fire-extinguishers and eye wash stations. I think you'll agree that I've gotten quite far in my work with just the empirical tools at my disposal."

"It surprised me how quick you were to implement magical security," conceded Rowena. "But why now? You seemed downright insulted when I first called you a witch last spring."

Abacad gestured to the horizontal scab lines on her face. "The warding in my office doorway did this to me."

Now it was Rowena's turn to laugh. "Not so much fun now, is it?"

"No, it is not," agreed Abacad amiably. "Your instruction would not come for free, I assure you. Being my clinic's consultant comes with benefits."

"What benefits?"

"Medical coverage, dental, optometric, orthopedic... chiropractic? I noticed your own posture suggests discomfort of your lower lumbar." Abacad took a drink of her rusty nail.

Rowena picked up her own glass with a flourish. "You young people and your insurance." Abacad didn't answer, but instead just watched as the witch took an uncomfortable drink of her Cab. "Can you really unclog a person's soul? Like a plumber?"

The doctor made a sucking sound and mimed pulling a rod. "Schlooop!"

"Mine doesn't really look like a wet mouldy bit of cloth, does it?"

Abacad grimaced in apology. "My glasses are in the car, if you want to see."

"Thanks, but no thanks," said Rowena. She suddenly gasped and gaped at the mortal woman across from her. She held her glass and pointed with that same index finger. "Do you already know what your soul looks like? You'd just hate to see for yourself and know you're right." The witch paused and thought for a beat. "I'm sorry I called you a coward."

"I didn't want to put my glasses on, look in the mirror and see that _you_ were right. Although I suppose it's a moot point now."

Rowena put down her wine and leaned forward on her elbows. "I think we can both learn a lot from one another."

* * *

Sam sat in a booth of the all-night diner, glancing fretfully out the window. He was hunched over the table on his elbows wearing a white shirt and suit jacket that fell 4 inches short of his wrists. He jittered with an antsy shiver; a chill permeated his body, not to be dispelled by the sour coffee in front of him.

The familiar purr of the Impala – sounding now more like a smoker's cough – crescendoed as the black car pulled up to the diner. Sam bolted outside.

As he reached the passenger side door, he hesitated.

"Y'alright, man?" asked Dean loudly through the broken window. "Get in."

Sam looked at his brother with trepidation. "Don't worry, I got all the glass."

The younger Winchester got uneasily into the passenger seat and planted himself with his forearms between his knees. "I'm sorry I stole your car," he began, his adam's apple bouncing.

Dean frowned, trying not to look at Sam. "Don't worry about it," he grunted, putting the Impala into gear and backing out of the parking spot. "So, I heard you got your soul back. You back to normal, then?"

"No..." said Sam slowly. He sniffed loudly, whispering to himself, "god, I feel so dirty."

"Okay, well, let's get you some different clothes and we'll take it from there."

"God, I must have killed, like..." murmured Sam pitifully, prompting Dean to look at him in shock. "...forty demons. Maybe more." His voice warbled and he leaned against the right, away from his brother.

"Pfft, demons?" scoffed Dean, taking in Sam's angst and relaxing. "Who cares? You had me worried there."

"You should be worried. I am. Dude, it's... I kinda didn't want to get in the car..."

"Look, I won't try to stab you again. Promise."

"Dean, I can smell your blood."

The demon started and looked at Sam with wide eyes. "Oh, so you're pretty much in withdrawal right now?" Sam nodded. "Sucks to be you. You want some of mine?"

"No! No thanks," blurted Sam vehemently. _I wouldn't trust myself to stop._

Dean shrugged dismissively. "Suit yourself." He tried not to smile in appreciation of his little brother's suffering. _That's what you get for messing with me, punk. You still think you're so much smarter than me? _He tried to push down his delicious sense of schadenfreude. _We're trying to be better than this._

Dean got on the highway and headed south, leaving Sam to get vigorously blown around beside the missing window, and to wonder why Dean hadn't taped cardboard across it or something. Dean in turn wondered if he could perhaps have spared a minute to seal up the window before he dropped everything to go pick up his brother.

The pair drove without exchanging a word for almost an hour as air roared through the car from the large hole in the right side. Sam rested his head with his hand against his ear in an attempt to block the noise of the highway. Every conversation was a non-starter as neither brother could be bothered to yell at the other over the thunderous din.

Finally, Dean barked "this is no damn good" and swerved suddenly onto a nearby off-ramp and into whatever town this was. He drove until he reached a construction site, where he pulled over, got out and popped the trunk. Sam got out and followed Dean around back, where his brother wordlessly shoved a roll of duct tape at him and seized a small, sharp utility knife.

Sam watched as Dean strode onto the jobsite and confidently sliced a large rectangle out of a dirty blue tarp that had been lying folded in a pile of supplies. The younger brother realized with alarm that this piece of stolen plastic would be missed and quickly got into the Impala and started the engine. Dean rolled his eyes and got in after him, and Sam drove to a nearby supermarket. There, the two of them taped the blue rectangle into the car's window, one man cutting tape and the other placing it. Neither said a word.

When it was done, the Winchesters got back into the car. Dean placed the keys into the ignition, but stopped before starting her up.

"Sam, I gotta tell ya, I'm glad you called me when you did. It's good to see you whole again."

"Thanks for coming to get me. I didn't think you would."

"Force of habit," replied Dean flippantly. He sighed and looked earnestly at Sam. "Actually, I did it more me than for you. I need you around. Look at me." Dean flicked his eyes to black and continued. "Ever since the Mark of Cain reanimated me, I can't tell what's what. I wouldn't know an act of heroism if it bit me in the ass. I can't even tell when I'm being a dick. I'm like soulless you, only worse. I don't have a conscience anymore. I need to borrow yours."

"I thought you couldn't help that, either way," countered Sam. "If it's not the demon in you, then it would be the Mark itself driving you to violence."

Dean's eyes went back to hazel and his face brightened. He rolled his right sleeve to the elbow and showed off his blank skin proudly. "I got rid of that. It's gone."

"Gone? Gone where?"

"Not my problem."

Sam took a breath, trying to be patient. "It might not be your problem, but it's your responsibility. You think you should maybe _make_ it your problem?"

Dean smiled and waggled a finger. "See that? That right there: conscience. That's what I need." He put the car into gear and headed for the highway. "After we swing by the bunker and get you all dressed and detoxed, wanna go on a hunt? We could track down and kill that skunk Metatron."

"Um, maybe we should just focus on fixing up the car, man."

"You're the boss, Jiminy." They drove in silence for several miles before Dean piped up again. "You can really smell my blood, huh?"

"It's stronger since we sealed the window."

"What do I smell like?"

"I don't want to talk about this..."

"Come on, man. I'm curious."

"...Gasoline and blackberry jam."

Dean pouted thoughtfully and nodded. "Huh."

* * *

The doctor's breath felt hot streaming through her nostrils. She walked down the hallway toward her condo, running her knuckles along the wallpaper. Abacad had walked past it many times, never taking the time to remark upon its texture. Still, she didn't want to leave her fingerprints. When she arrived at her own door, she focused and concentrated to insert the key into the lock with precision, avoiding scraping the metallic plating around the keyhole like a drunkard.

She felt that she was doing a good job of remaining composed and civil given the circumstances. Abacad was doing her best to enjoy the sensation of intoxication – however slight – and put out of her mind the affront she'd done to her prized cerebrum by poisoning it.

Her gloomy space was illuminated by the bathroom light, which she remembered having left on. She turned on the overhead light, revealing Crowley sitting in her favorite stuffed chair – which she did not remember leaving there.

"_Ey baba gayidy!"_ she uttered loudly, dropping her purse in surprise.

"Don't swear at me, _azizam,_" said Crowley. "I'm not finished with you."

"Oh, yes you are...!" huffed Abacad, feeling her face turn red. Before she could get on with her scolding, the demon king continued.

"It seems to me that we never discussed my fee for designing your clinic's fancy new updated security system."

"The document never mentioned a fee. I didn't agree to anything."

"True, but the language of the contract leaves payment open for interpretation. Fancy another round of Who's Got The Better Lawyers, Behrooz? I do so miss our games of hardball."

Abacad picked up her purse and put it on the table in the alcove. "Ahlquist," was her single word of rebuttal, and she watched Crowley steadily lose bluster through the puncture she'd poked. She felt a pang of pity. "What would you ask as payment?"

"A pint of your blood should suffice."

Abacad frowned. "What are you going to do with it?"

Crowley stood up and buttoned his jacket. "That's my business."

_Ah, ever the consummate professional,_ mused Abacad before her mind started churning with conjecture, imagining the nefarious black magic leverage human blood might provide. "Absolutely not. Would _you_ trust _me_ with a vial of your blood?"

"Don't be silly," scoffed Crowley immediately. After a beat he gave the question some thought. "Actually, _you?_ Perhaps. I daresay, if I had anyone I could trust, it would be you." He softened. "I'm sure you'd keep it quite safe in that freezer-vault of yours."

Abacad looked into his eyes and inhaled slowly, realizing. "You want it for injection."

"You could give it to me, but we both know that I could have it taken from you."

Abacad felt the tightness of a hiccup form in her chest. "Have you already taken the dose I gave you?"

Crowley stepped out of her personal space and turned into the gloom. He cleared his throat uncertainly, without answering.

"You have injected it. Recently, too." She put a hand on his shoulder. "You're as drunk as I am. Look at me." She turned him toward her and as the light fell across his face she spotted the ache in his wet, bloodshot eyes. She realized what he had been doing while he waited for her, alone in the dark. "Why do you want more?"

Crowley gripped the doctor roughly by her upper arms. "You will give me what I am owed," he snarled, stepping forward and shoving her backwards.

Abacad took in his small show of rage and immediately saw past it, taking in how deeply she'd cleft him. Her heart sank and she suddenly felt very sober. "You're right. As payment, a pint seems fair. Meet me at ten on Saturday in front of the Portland sign and I'll have it for you."

The doctor kicked off her shoes, lowering her closer to Crowley's height, but not by much. She stepped forward and placed a hand on the demon's neck tenderly, causing him to prickle in discomfort. Still she stooped and kissed him once beside his mouth. "Please don't use my blood to torture yourself."

Crowley picked Abacad's hand off him and handed it back to her. "I'm the King of Hell, darling. I don't have anyone to do it for me."

* * *

_News anchors narrated into padded microphones as they crowded in bunches at the base of the courthouse steps. The oak doors burst open with a bang and flashbulbs started popping, grabbing the reporters' attention. Everyone's manic gaze shifted to the handcuffed woman in the orange. As she was being pulled by her elbow toward the police personnel carrier parked in the street, the questions erupted._

"_Mrs. Trenton!"_

"_Ms. Trenton, over here!"_

"_Leslie Kwok, Channel Twelve..."_

"_Amanda, could we have a statement?"_

"_There she is!"_

"_Real quick, why'd you do it?"_

"_Why'd you do it, Mrs. Trenton?"_

_The police escort continued tugging her by the elbow, but Buttercup's feet slowed. Microphones clustered to her face like giant black marshmallows to catch the convict's soft, lazy words as she meandered toward her sentence._

"_What I had was not a life. No one would be sorry to be rid of it. Having pierced the veil and seen the pathetic artifice of civility and family for what it is, I couldn't accept it any more. It was an insulting, glaring mockery. I could not suffer them to live. I hope none of you ever come to join me in my crushing understanding because then, neither will you."_

_Then the uniformed rentals redoubled their efforts to shove their blonde prisoner down the stairs and into the van. All the well-coiffed windbags, satisfied with the soundbites they'd scooped, turned back to their respective cameras and took back their microphones._

"_Amanda 'The Buttercup' Trenton..."_

"_There you have it..."_

"_...showed no remorse in court nor afterwards..."_

"_...six consecutive life sentences..."_

"_...convicted in the stabbing death of 31, including 3 tactical officers and her own husband and young son..."_

Amanda opened her eyes, her breathing even, her sheets dry. She looked around her darkened bedroom and her eyes fell upon the peacefully sleeping face of her husband on the pillow next to her. _It would be so easy. Just look at him._

She clamped her eyes shut, rolled onto her side and yanked the blanket up to her ears.

_I miss the nightmares about Dean's torture chamber._

* * *

**_THE END_**

* * *

**_Cheat Sheet:_**

**Momurinin: **"Darling" in Scots Gaelic (taken from Outlander  
**Ey baba gayidy: **"Oh, for fuck's sake" (also appears in chapter one)

Dean calls Sam "Jiminy" as in Jiminy Cricket, Pinocchio's external conscience.

Dean's blood smells like Cabernet Sauvignon. Yumm.

* * *

**_A/N: _**Thank you all so much for reading all the way to the end! This is the biggest, longest thing I've ever tried to write, and I'd be touched and honoured if you let me know what you think by way of review.

I had so much fun writing this story; distracted pedestrians (and others oblivious to their own bodies in space) are a particular pet peeve of mine, and it was such a pleasure to bite their heads off. I also had fun writing ManBearPig into Supernatural (though I had originally envisioned him as an adversary for the Winchesters, and much less scary a scene). Hashing out the details of magical security, and writing the dialogue of goofy slackers caught up in loads of supernatural crazy-foolishness... this is such a deep sandbox to play in. Crowley and Rowena's dialogue in particular are fun to write, especially since Rowena sounds to me like Monty Burns.

Sorry Mbavric, I would never bring Castiel back. I got so sick of him so quick in the show, that I couldn't wait to kill him off. If there had been a way to do it _even _sooner, I would have.

By the way, without his soul, Sam no longer gets panic attacks when he hears Asia's song "Heat of the Moment".

Thanks so much to my sister's friend Targol, as well as those delightful and beautiful Persian customers who helped me translate Abacad's Farsi sayings.

Thanks again for reading this. In closing, don't you think they should cast Jim Beaver as the next _Dos Equos_ guy? Bobby Singer is indeed the most interesting man in the world. Who's with me?


End file.
